Black Smoke

And who do you think you are?

It was my agent Smilodon’s idea, of course. When I’d explained my predicament about my arthritic skeleton, he’d suggested, in his usual somewhat blunt Teutonic manner, that I might need some help. I’d immediately balked at this, being the independent creature I am. But he persisted, dropping little hints into our communications. This was becoming so irritating that when he invited me to a literary lunch in Belgravia, I almost turned him down. But there is a little fish restaurant he takes his clients to that serves the most delicious pollock with white sauce; so good it almost tastes as nice as the stuff my Slaves give me on special days.

The day finally came, and I waited with a sense of anticipation for my Slaves to get ready. This meant mostly standing in their way on the landing, but remaining oblivious to the fact that they might trip over me. Eventually in a flurry of excitement about keys and ID badges, they left for what they call their jobs. Or rather the places they go to find more money to pay for my increasing visits to the Green Gowned Devil, and the supply of pills I’m forced to take. And my food of course, especially the aforementioned tinned gourmet creation. And occasional scratching posts, as I am wont to destroy them. Well, what else did they need to spend it on? They know I’m not that interested in any toys they might buy me, unless they contain catnip, but that doesn’t stop them.

So eventually, the door closed, and I heard the sounds of their cars as they drove away. As silence settled over the house, I felt calmer and crept back to my basket on the landing, sniffing it. It made me want to curl up, blot out the day already. I wasn’t sure I could face Smilodon with his questions about future projects and the battery of inquiries about my health. Duty soon got the better of me and I took the stairs tentatively, my old bones creaking, until I reached the bottom. The house’s front door is also a portal which leads into a network of tunnels in the alternate universe we cats consider our own. These tunnels lead to many places in our verse of space. But you know this already.

I hopped across space and time, coming out in Hyde park, around the back of an art gallery beside the Serpentine. The park wasn’t busy - a few cats sauntered along by the water, hungrily looking across its expanse for any sign of wild fowl, a rarity in this universe - they exist, but have better learnt to keep their distance than those in the human frame. Occasional shimmers of light would suggest something, perhaps the shadow of a duck bleeding into this world, but it could just have been the sun, reflecting across the lake. As I approached the road, the blur of activity from the human world became more obvious, visible even in the bright light of day: the ghost-like outlines of the traffic encircling London’s main park, the buses and taxis and lorries and cyclists. But they were in another space, and I crossed the road, unhindered by these spectral shapes. Once you learnt not to see them, they became invisible.

Soon I was amongst the white facades and columns of Belgravia. What is a smart, affluent part of London in the human realm, remains similar in our iteration; there are a few places, attractors you might want to call them, where the topographies are identical, and this is one. I suppose something has to knit all the various parts of the multiverse together, although why Belgravia, I have no idea. Perhaps the creator of this whole thing just liked the place.

Soon I spied the familiar large striped awning that hung over the street, the buzz of the cats on the chairs outside. The place was comforting, reminding me of the higher points of my literary career. It felt like we’d met there innumerable times, although it roughly amounted to once per book. The noise of laughter drew my attention back to the cats outside. At least six bottles of Les Moustaches, a celebrated and prestigious brand of fermented milk from Charolais, stood on the nearby tables - these were obviously cats of taste. I wondered if Smilodon would stoop to one of those for our meeting today, but knowing the price tag, considered that it might be a little too much to expect.

Inside, amongst the dark wooden browns of the wainscoted walls, I made my way to the back of the establishment, to the booth I knew Smilodon favoured. He was there already, eyeglasses looking uncomfortable over his pointy Burmese ears, as he flicked through a wad of paper.

‘Lining up the next lamb to the slaughter?’ I asked, as I sidled into the booth opposite.

Smilodon removed his spectacles from his face and placed them onto the crisp white tablecloth. ‘Aber… But this is how I discovered you,’ he said, in his German inflected but oddly British accent.

‘Any good?’

‘Schade… Sadly no. It will be some years again, before I come across a writer like yourself.’

‘I’m very flattered, Smilodon.’

‘Which is why we must think of your legacy,’ he replied, waving his paw at a waitress. To my surprise, a magnum of Moustache soon appeared and in a deft movement, coiling her tail around the cork, the bottle was open. I was so surprised, I could hardly bring myself to rail against this premonition of my demise, so instead decided to enjoy the booze.

‘Ich weiss… I know you aren’t the most organised sort. That you are prolific, but most of your stuff ends up in your Slaves’ attic,’ he explained.

‘I think you are confusing a prolific output with quality. I only send you stuff I’m happy with.’

‘Vielleicht… perhaps, some of that work might be useful to a scholar of your oeuvre,’ he continued, his accent making a mouthful of the French word.

‘I don’t want any help,’ I replied. ‘If anything it would hinder the creative process,’ I spat out, hoping that would be the last I’d hear of it.

‘What I am suggesting isn’t so much an amanuensis. More a protégé,’ Smilodon replied, keeping his cool, whilst again butchering the French language.

‘I don’t need help.’

‘Have some of Les Moustaches. And, I took the liberty of ordering your favourite dish.’

Arranging for this individual to come and join me was more complicated and indeed protracted than I think even Smilodon had considered. Perhaps if he’d known he wouldn’t have suggested such a course of action. But, once he’d persuaded me, his mind was set firmer than previously.

Firstly my human Slaves had to be hoodwinked into believing they wanted another cat. Which was easier said than done, although cat people have a tendency to accumulate the felines in their lives. And us cats are very good at subliminal manipulation of our Slaves. I was given a set of instructions, which I had to stick to. I recognised some of it as from The Alchemy of Feline and Human Interaction, the original of which I had once leafed through in a library with gloves over my paws to prevent any damage.

Secondly, she who Smilodon had chosen to be my companion was already located with other Human Slaves. It was therefore necessary that they came to the conclusion to be rid of her. Again easier said than done. She’d been placed with another ancient old British Blue writer, a poet of some renown. But that hadn’t worked out - they simply didn’t get on. So it was engineered that she keep the owners up every night until they lost their patience with this unruly kitten.

And thirdly, The Architect had to be consulted. His job mostly dealt in appraising time, and making sure that the messy lives of cats didn’t interfere too much with its continual progression towards oblivion. This often meant the machinations of a clockwork device, which he kept hidden in a chine in Bournemouth. But he knew the whereabouts of other similar clockwork devices, one of which could interact with what Humans call their internet. And so, my Slave’s computers were hijacked with adverts for a particular feline, she who Smilodon had chosen to be my companion.

So it came to pass that my Slaves woke up one Saturday morning and drove halfway up the country. They returned after a long day on the motorway, with a small black smoke British Shorthair and Scottish Fold cross. She sauntered in, tail held high, until she saw me.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Good evening. I’ve heard a lot about you. Not just from Smilodon. But from them,’ she said, nodding at my Human Slaves. ‘They do go on a bit.’

‘Any idea what they are going to call you yet? I asked.

‘Not sure. Mimi was suggested. But they haven’t made a decision yet.’

‘Right. Mimi is nice I suppose.’

‘Well, anyway, I suppose I’d better give the impression I’m scared of you,’ she said. I noticed a slight white tinge to her muzzle, imparting a sense of age much greater than her months.

‘For form’s sake, I suppose, yes,’ I answered.

‘I’ll just stay here, looking at you, pretending to be fascinated for a while.’

‘And if I creep closer and raise my paw.’

‘I’ll then dash behind the sofa.’

Over the next few weeks, it was incumbent on us, when our Slaves were around, to pretend as if we were cautious of one another. This generally meant fighting. But also displays of jealousy. If I was on the bed with the Slaves, she’d jump up and clamber over me in a fit of pique. And then when they went to their jobs, we’d get to work. She embarked on the attic with a professional attitude, encouraging me to discuss the various styles I’d used, or why certain things had been junked. At the same time, she proved herself to be a proficient mouser, which was just as well as the critters had been using my words to line their nests.

Looking back though, maybe in those first few weeks, I hadn’t just been acting. I had been cautious about her arrival, and how it would change things around my house. But it quickly became apparent that she was a welcome addition. Soon I was teaching her and appraising her own efforts to write. As Smilodon had suggested, there was a raw talent there, which just needed channelling.

Now months have gone by and our Slaves have named her something utterly atrocious, which causes embarrassment at the vets for her and them. Although thankfully, she is happy that I continue to call her Mimi. These days, it is less pressing for us to put on a show in front of our Slaves. In fact, they seem to prefer it when we are seen to be getting along. And Mimi seems to enjoy showing off in front of them with the cornucopia of cat toys which I spurned. Although we do have the odd scrap, just because… But most of the time, we are happy in each other’s company. And if anything, my creativity had been boosted by her presence - my latest book ‘Black Smoke’, no doubt inspired by my companion. The title of the book is inspired by her coat, the tips of which are pigmented, but the bases of which are white. Such an occurrence is a complication of cat coat genetics - the inhibited pigment gene - but one, which I have to say, is rather fetching.

END

There are a number of stories in this saga. Should you wish to read more about the misadventures of this particular feline, you can find them all here: The Cat's Page.

Mylo

For a number of weeks now, my thoughts have turned to those of the morbid variety. Being a writer, these often crystallise in my mind as words, sometimes those of my peers. For example, the bon mots of a famous Caterato, an American tomcat called Blatherskite, who once said in his characteristic Mississippi drawl: ‘I do not fear death. I had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born, and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it.’ Needless to say, his Human Slave, a man called Mark Twain, heard this and transcribed it into his work (which is why you, human reader, may have heard this quotation). And although Blatherskite is indeed correct, when faced with the facts of the matter, trying not to fear the end, the final full-stop to one’s existence, is easier said than done. Such macabre perambulations of my thoughts, were centred on two events which occurred recently, which I will relay to you in turn.

The first episode began a month or so ago, precipitated by a visit to the green-gowned devil - I have had cause to mention her in previous missives. The visit was preceded by an uncomfortable trip in the car, where I’d somehow managed to sit awkwardly, hurting my back. This was in turn followed by a routine vaccination, the effects of which morphed me into something from a horror film. A few hours after said inoculation, which itself had been relatively painless, my muzzle blew up like a balloon and my nictitating membranes began to bulge out of my eye sockets. Needless to say this was unpleasant and caused my Human Slaves much consternation. Especially when I proceeded to void bilious stomach contents over their Persian rug. I add the last for effect - my Slaves were of course more concerned about me than said floorcloth.

So, off we trundled to another green-gowned devil, who deemed it essential to forcibly insert a thermometer into… Well, the less said about that the better. The swelling had thankfully at this point settled, but my legs remained stiff. I was discharged, but had to be followed up because this out of hours devil, with his all too thorough examination, considered it necessary. Now, I had been suffering stiffness for a while, but, you know it was on and off.

High on painkillers, I had almost forgotten about the dreaded follow-up until a few weeks later, when I was hoicked off to the vet’s again. Now, I was slightly concerned - perhaps they’d found something last time, which they had kept from me? Was there something in my liver, or eating away at my spleen? Was it terminal? I was reassured that only my smaller Slave was there for this particular visit. ‘If it was the end, surely they would both have been there?’ I thought to myself comfortingly, while at the same time worrying about my legacy, the loose ends of which seemed as frayed as the end of my favourite multicoloured-dangly-toy-on-a-stick-thing.

But I wasn’t prepared for her reaction when I awoke from the anaesthetic. Groggy as I was, my first thought was that I was glad to be alive again. My second thought was that because my small Slave was in floods of tears, something must be dreadfully wrong. She was talking to my Taller Slave, on her phone, so I managed to glean parts of what was going on from her side of the conversation. Incidentally, he was away in Bristol at a writers’ thing where he’d been reciting one of my stories; the circularity of this didn’t fail to amuse me.

To cut a long story short (as my editor/agent colleague Smilodon often suggests), it became apparent that I have arthritis. Now, I am relatively old - middle aged in human terms, I suppose - but this still came as a shock. I suppose this particular disease is one that you could associate with the process of the gradual descent into decrepitude which we know as ageing. Some breeds of cat get it earlier than others; unfortunately it seems I am one of those unlucky ones.

I was coming to terms with my plight and the bitter taste of the painkilling medication, when the second thing happened.

It was nighttime and my Slaves were asleep. I’d spent some time upstairs, working on tying up those loose ends of which I spoke. Finishing off those short stories which had been hanging over me for months, as well as working on the end of a novel. But I needed a break, so I padded downstairs. The night seemed to lay an odd hush over the house, almost as if the lack of light altered the way the building transmitted sound.

 My old bones creaked as I squeezed myself through the cat flap. Or at least, that was my perception - since I started with the pain relief, things have been easier. I haven’t exactly been running around like a kitten, although I can now jump higher than I have done for many months. I exercised this new ability by jumping onto the garden table. After a few moments, I realised someone else was also in the garden, sat on the cracked patio slabs below.

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ I said to The Architect, as he moved into a pool of moonlight.

‘I hear you’ve been unwell,’ he said.

‘Athena told you?’ I asked. Athena lived on the same street as me, a few doors down; her human slave was apparently quite a famous Rock Star, or at least had managed to make a career out of it, thanks to a hit single back in the 70s. Athena had been kind enough to drop by a brace of freshly slaughtered voles as a get well present. I thanked her, but when she’d left, quickly got rid of them - as I have previously indicated, I’m fussy about what I eat and prefer my food to come out of a can with a high end brand on the side.

The Architect nodded in reply, his jowled muzzle quivering in the dark. As the silence that followed grew longer and longer, I eventually felt obliged to say something. ‘Feeling a bit better, actually.’

He nodded again, but this time spoke. ‘I saw you leaping onto the table. You need to be careful; those medications can make you feel like you have super powers.’ I noticed something in his tone of voice, as if he wanted to tell me something.

‘What’s up? Something’s wrong isn’t it?’ I queried.

‘Mylo has died,’ The Architect said.

My legs were suddenly heavy, like lead weights. I felt like covering my eyes with my paws, shutting out the world. For a while I just shook my head, unwilling to believe this could have happened.

‘How?’ I asked, eventually.

‘Poison,’ The Architect replied, but failed to elaborate further.

‘Poison? Someone killed him?’ I asked, immediately wondering who could have been jealous of the cat’s prodigious talent. There were no doubt a fair few whose feelings could have spiralled out of control.

‘Well, they think it was a human. A local farmer.’

‘On purpose?’

‘An accident, in all likelihood. Poison laid down to kill some mice or rats.’

‘Which Mylo ate?’

‘I’m not sure of all the details. But he was a voracious hunter. He probably caught and ate something which had already been poisoned.’

‘He can’t have been more than … what … five?’

The Architect nodded. Some of the autumn leaves that had fallen from nearby trees were caught by a flutter of wind. This was so sudden, it was almost as if speaking about our friend had caused some part of his spirit to return. Then, as soon as it had begun, the wind died and the leaves began to settle one by one.

‘The funeral’s next week. Where he lived, place called Winterslow. Up Salisbury way. You going to be well enough to attend?’ The Architect asked.

‘I’ll be there. Whatever it takes,’ I replied. ‘But haven’t some of the portals around there faded?’

‘Around Old Sarum they have a somewhat capricious hold on reality. You’ll have to pass through the catacombs in Salisbury.’

‘Right. I haven’t been that way for some time…,’ I said, worriedly.

‘How about I come pick you up then?’ asked The Architect.

We spoke a bit more, about our friend, before The Architect once again disappeared into the night. I remember thinking it was good of him to drop by - he was usually so busy at that time of day, frantically pulling together the threads of time which had been lost. Before feeding them into that antique Victorian machine in the chine, which smoothed out all time’s blemishes ready for the next day.

Mylo had achieved more in his five years on our planet than many did in a lifetime. He was a poet, his bucolic surroundings often feeding into his verse, although not in an old fashioned manner. His work was on point, up to date, tapping into some of the paranoias and worries that human society fed back into that the feline world. And it was brilliant. We’d become friends on the circuit, at some festival or another where we’d both been reading. His was a larger than life character, the central planet around which folk seemed to orbit at such events. Whether people were there hoping to catch one of the witticisms he dropped at regular intervals, or to have some of the brilliance rub off on them was uncertain. To me, he was a fellow writer, another solider who fought alongside, and fabulous company. His loss was a loss to the entire Caterati. With such a meteoric rise, who knows what might have happened if he had lived.

That Mylo had died at less than half my age, put my current problems into a degree of perspective. I’d already enjoyed more that twice the amount of existence than poor Mylo. But everything was relative. Some lights burn brighter than others, and for shorter times. This fact we simply have to accept, however inconvenient.

The funeral was held in the human verse of space, rather than that of the feline. It is a custom of ours to hold such events in the realm of space where one meets one’s demise. I’m not sure why this is the case, but it is a practice which goes back many years. I expect it relates to the fact that, once your light has been extinguished, it is difficult to then pass between realms.

We followed the old paths, through the dusty, dank catacombs under the cathedral, and then picked up a portal which carried us over to the East of the city. The funeral was to take place just outside a village called Winterslow, where there is a large mansion house with a rather unusual sculpture garden in the grounds. It was also close to Mylo’s old stomping ground. One of his friends, a beautiful silver tabby feline called Sylvia had organised the entire affair, and was ushering cats this way and that. Well, trying to: herding cats is, as you are well aware, an impossible task. Although it was dark, a number of the sculptures closer to the house were illuminated. Amongst the artwork on display was a rather odd looking cat-like creature, the height of a human, which was provoking an interesting reaction. Other pieces just seemed to loom out of the dark: odd block-like shapes, inspired by some element of the human condition.

I spent some time in the vicinity of these pieces, wandering across the neatly manicured lawns, spongy with rain. After some time, I located The Architect, and together we wandered into the small courtyard which had been commandeered for the proceedings. The place was full, as befitting Mylo’s status. I recognised many familiar faces: Ziggy was there, now a fully fledged member of the Caterati, with his debut novel making waves on the Indie scene. Athena was there too, her owl fluttering above the throng, its steel casing shimmering in the reflections of the spotlights.

I remember there being something in the air, something like a pheromone that put me ill at ease. At the same time this discontent was laced with a base note of aggression. However, I’d kind of put the latter down to Sylvia’s slightly obsessive compulsive behaviour; she was grieving, after all, and sometimes this can bring out characteristics we aren’t necessarily proud of. Or perhaps it was just that everyone was at a funeral and it was a sad occasion - it had been a while since I’d been to one.

As things commenced, everything had seemed civilised. Friends and relatives stood up and read out Mylo’s work, to choruses of screeches and miaows from the throng. In between readings, the air felt alive, with the vibration of the concerted purring making me think there was a swarm of bees in the vicinity.

I can’t remember exactly when everything went wrong. But I think it started when a cat called Buxton, a British blue, stood up and spoke. His words were powerful, casting the finger of blame at the local farmer who had laid the poison. He called for retribution and revenge. There were murmurs of assent at this, but even then the crowd remained calm, as one, mourning gracefully. Buxton sat down and more followed.

I think something must have happened as we were leaving. There were shouts for revenge, that something had to be done. There was a sudden push and cats began scrambling over each other as they made for the exit. I lost The Architect in the fray. Outside, on top of the cat statue, a young cat was whipping up the throng, her tail thrashing the air so violently that I thought she might lose her balance and fall. She was spitting words, none of which seemed to hang together.

‘…set fire to the house…scratch his eyes out while he sleeps…kill his faithful hounds…poison his family with the same stuff that…’

‘Poison them!’ a tomcat shouted, which was greeted with murmurs of approval.

‘Let’s do it now! While they sleep!’ another cat shouted, this time a female.

‘STOP!’ another voice shouted. It was one of Mylo’s friends, who had read early in the proceedings. He was stood on the top of the wall that surrounded the small courtyard garden where the service had taken place. ‘Poison? You will do no such thing. You think this is what Mylo wanted?’

‘Mylo would be alive, if it weren’t for that farmer!’ exclaimed another female, on the verge of hysteria.

‘Mylo was a peace-loving cat. He wished no harm to come to anyone. How is this respecting his life?’ came the reply.

A sudden indignant silence fell across the crowd. Mylo’s friend seemed to have quelled the urgent anger of the crowd. Knowing he now had his audience, he continued: ‘If you need to do anything, you should do something naughty, something irreverent. An act that respects the mischievous side of Mylo’s personality.’

‘Like what?’ asked a lone voice.

‘If you must do anything, how about you spoil the farmer’s cider? I’ve heard that cat piss doesn’t do much for its flavour.’

Hoping to find The Architect, I followed the clowder as they marched up towards Winterslow. The crowd was making a mess of the reception table, as they quaffed large quantities of the fermented white stuff, in preparation for the proceedings. Sylvia was flapping about and was somewhat unbelievably marking things down on a clipboard; to this day, I still have no idea what she was doing.

As the line of cats wound its sinuous way across the landscape, I found myself in conversation with the British Blue called Buxton, who had given the rousing eulogy. Buxton was named after a famous cat from a programme called The Magic Roundabout, he explained, before quizzing me about my current projects. The way he waited for me as we passed over a fence was touching, but made me feel my age. Perhaps I was limping - the cold had set in a bit and my legs were aching at that point.

In any case, we soon found our way to the farm, where the cats were scurrying around, gingerly removing the tops of the large vats he kept in his cider shed. Soon the boozy aroma was wafting its way across to my nostrils. But at the same time there was also the sharp tang of cat piss, as one by one, cats relieved themselves into the large vats. A few of the cats fell in, had to be helped out, the liquid sticking to their coats, making them seem like thinner, rattier creatures. This went on for a time, until one of the cats jumped up onto the top of a cider press and knocked the lid onto the floor. The massive crash didn’t go unnoticed and soon lights were popping up in the windows of the adjacent farmhouse. At this point, everyone scattered. I ran as fast as my arthritic legs could carry me, and by the time I heard the shotgun go off, I was almost at the door to the portal.

On the way back, without The Architect’s assistance, I found myself lost. I’d found my way to Old Sarum, but it was there the portals faded out, forcing travellers to join the older paths located in the human verse. I tentatively made my way along the deep tunnels beneath the ramparts of the old motte and bailey castle, following the immortal words of Mylo. He had travelled this way many times, and captured his experiences in a quartet of sonnets, which were celebrated for their bleak, gothic nature. These poems, like many of his others, hinted at a somewhat difficult, perhaps even sinister, future ahead.

It had been the catacombs beneath Salisbury centre which had thrown me. There were too many false turnings and dead ends, and try as I might, I couldn’t find the next section of the portal system. Eventually I gave up, and found my way out via a trapdoor in an old wooden pub called The Haunch of Venison. The place was thankfully closed and in complete darkness, reeking of a mixture of spilled beer and cleaning fluids. Being one of the older public houses in Salisbury, it was naturally filled with the liminal forms of ghosts, although they seemed more than usually discontent, whispering incoherently at me. Some of them were protecting a box on the wall of the place. I hopped up from the warped wooden floorboards onto a table, to better inspect this artefact, sending the spectral forms scurrying into the corners of the room. The box contained a mummified human hand; for creatures of other realms, such a thing was like a honeypot for bees. And it drew the tourists in, some of whom would leave with a ghost mired in their spirit.

Leaving this hideous artefact alone, I crept out of the pub via an open kitchen window, rimed with grease. Having licked the dirt and grease from my coat and once again made myself presentable, I made my way to the main street, hoping I would be hidden by darkness. Instead, blue lights strobed across the night and the place was a hive of human activity. Police officers were standing around, looking concerned as they watched another group of humans, dressed in some kind of luminescent protective gear, climb out of a van. Some people were shouting in the distance and I heard the buzz of a helicopter overhead. I had once to flatten myself against a wall as a large military vehicle thundered by. Something distinctly odd was happening.

I had to double back to get to the cathedral, and even then I had to sneak under some police tape. Soon though, I was beneath its towering spire and from there it was a short stretch to the cloisters. Whatever had happened out in the city beyond the walls of the protected place was spooking those in the dimensions beyond. More spectral shapes skittered about, as if panicking. I ignored them and bounded down into the crypt, where I could pick up the portal network again.

Eventually, with relief, I found myself back in Bournemouth, my back limbs now groaning with the effort. The Architect was waiting for me in the garden, a concerned look furrowing his brow. I explained how I’d got caught up in something, where the behaviour of humans was distinctly strange. And how their discomfiture had spilled into the neighbouring dimensions, causing an unease in the regions beyond.

‘This is a world in flux,’ The Architect said, in his usual flat tone. He explained what he’d heard was happening in Salisbury; how humans appeared to be poisoning themselves as well as some of us.

‘It makes me think of Mylo’s poems. The dark future he suggested,’ I mused.

‘He wasn’t a soothsayer, if that’s what you are suggesting,’ said The Architect, with an uncharacteristic contrariness. I supposed he knew about such matters.

‘I wasn’t suggesting that,’ I replied, slowly, gauging my friend’s expression. ‘What I meant was … perhaps he was able to pick up on the mess humans are making of the world? At least more than some of us can?’

‘You might be right. In any case, the clock doesn’t stop ticking. Whatever happens, time will continue its endless march forward. We are just bystanders in this, as we are in human affairs,’ The Architect replied. I was struck by the eloquence of this and thought about it for a while, as we both raised our heads to the heavens. I was still staring upwards at the sky thinking about it when I realised he had departed. I waited in the garden for a while longer, wondering if the leaves would rise up and give me another sign from Mylo. But this time, they remained still.

The End

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Alma Meta

The Wren Library, Trinity College, Cambridge

            ‘I’m not sure about…,’ started Jim.

            ‘About what?’ I asked.

            ‘Your change of direction.’

            ‘Ah. You mean the cat stories?’

            ‘Exactly. I preferred the … well, the more sci-fi stuff.’

            ‘You know I prefer to regard my stuff as SF. I don’t like the term Sci-Fi.’

            ‘Whatever. I preferred the stories about Space Lice. Psychic alien plants. And big fuck off space craft.’

            I sighed. It had been a while since I’d seen Jim. We were in a pub called The Mitre, one of our old university haunts. It hadn’t taken us long to make our way there – I’d timed the time it took from when the train arrived until we found the familiar seat in the pub’s window: less than 30 minutes. True to form, rather than browsing the library’s latest catalogue or singing in the choir, like some of the returning graduates did, we’d gone straight to the pub. Ostensibly we were there for a college dinner, but from years of experience they were dry stuffy affairs. During the halcyon years of university we’d become accustomed to pre-loading before these events, and old habits died hard.

            I looked up at his jowly and recently bearded features. His beard was full – much better than the wispy effort he used to occasionally sport in our salad days. ‘Well, I have lost a few Twitter followers…’

            ‘Twitter?’ he asked scathingly. ‘People still use that?’

            ‘It all started out as a bit of a joke.’

            ‘Twitter? I thought Jack Dorsey was serious about the whole thing.’

            ‘Who is he?’ I asked.

            ‘He invented Twitter,’ Jim explained, a touch of sarcasm in his tone. I think he was getting his own back for the SF versus Sci-Fi comment.

            ‘Right.’

            ‘I’m sorry. You were saying… The cat stories started as a joke.’

            ‘Yes. I’d been on this writers’ conference. The subject of writers’ familiars came up. The cat was of course mentioned. In fact, I’d included a piece for critiquing which contained a cat.’

            ‘Thrilling stuff, this,’ said Jim, managing to somehow simultaneously roll his eyes and drain his glass.

            ‘Anyway, one of my writer pals suggested that my cat was sitting at home, bashing out novel after novel and was far more successful than I was.’

            ‘You did call him Isaac. What kind of a name is that for a cat?’

            ‘He isn’t called Isaac.’

            ‘Really? Hang on, was it Arthur? Bradbury?’

            I ignored this and continued. ‘So I started writing these stories from the perspective of a cat who was famous in his own right. But at the same time, lived a double life as a house cat, tended to by his human owners, which he refers to as Slaves.’

            ‘I think I need another pint,’ remarked Jim. ‘Same again?’

            As Jim stood at the bar, I gazed out of the window, looking across to the flank of St John’s college. The street outside was busy with tourists, students, bikes and the occasional bus or taxi. I’d whiled away many hours in that same spot, often with a science fiction novel to hand, a pint in the other. Much had changed since then, but in some ways it hadn’t. The smoking ban meant that the air inside the establishment was actually breathable, unlike the toxic fog we used to have to contend with – but at the same time, I couldn’t shake the desire to step outside and spark up a ciggy. For old time’s sake. To feed the nostalgic beast inside.

            I wondered about the cat stories. Whether I was sabotaging my creative output by writing them rather than the more generic space opera I’d started with. Was my voice being stifled by The Cat’s feline miaows? Perhaps I should bring him to Cambridge, to where it all started. I imagined him walking down the street, looking at all the students pouring out of this very pub. Probably with disdain.

            ‘Toxoplasmosis,’ Jim muttered, settling a pint of Abbot in front of me on the wooden table. As I lifted it to meet Jim’s glass, I noticed it left a ring of wetness on the surface. I was sure they used to have coasters in this place, which I’d routinely tear to pieces over the course of the evening, my fingers needing something to worry at when they weren’t tapping out stories.

            ‘I recall learning something about that.’

            ‘You get it from cats. Causes cysts in the brain. You can catch it from cat faeces. Probably why you are coming out with all the cat shit. Because it has literally voided its bowels into your mindbox.’

            ‘Do you mind?’

            ‘I think we were referring to yours.’

            ‘Anyway, since when were you the expert on feline fiction? I thought you were only interested in rugby and kidneys?’

            ‘Much of what you say is true,’ Jim said, wiping some of the foamy beer from his moustache.

            ‘Perhaps you should combine the two. Make up a game with a kidney shaped ball.’

            After a few word games with this metaphorical ball, we set up Bridge Street towards the river. We battled against a tide of tourists, groups of which were lead by officious leaders brandishing selfie sticks. I’d always found the tourist side to the town frustrating as an undergraduate. They just got in the way of the purpose of the town: my purpose, I’d felt, grandiosely. But here I was, essentially a tourist, my ties to the college now withered with time.

            Jim stopped just before the bridge, looking inside the windows of an estate agent. There was a look of sadness in his eyes.

            ‘This was where–?’ I started.

            ‘Yes,’ Jim interrupted.

            ‘No more free poppadums,’ we said in unison.

            ‘I can’t believe, given the amount we used to spend in there, he couldn’t keep going,’ I remarked.

            ‘Maybe he died. Probably died,’ Jim replied.

            ‘Perhaps. Or set up somewhere else.’

            At the bridge, we hesitated, and stood watching the punts go buy. The river was busy with tourists: tidy groups of more elderly travellers competing with unruly packs of younger kids. Punts were strewn at odd angles across the river – someone had tried to turn, but failed, and was now causing a huge backlog. There was the dull clunk of wood on wood, as the punts collided.  Some of the European students shrieked. A young man tottered, trying to keep his balance, but couldn’t manage it and splashed into the water.

            ‘Woah,’ said Jim.

            ‘Yeah, he was lucky he wasn’t crushed between those punts…’

            ‘No, it wasn’t that.’

            ‘What was it then?’ I asked, looking at Jim’s face with concern. Abbot was a strong pint – perhaps it was having some adverse effects on my old friend.

            ‘I just blinked. And when I opened my eyes, the entire place was filled with cats. Cats on the riverbank, filling the punts… Everywhere. Like something out of your stories.’

            ‘Weird,’ I remarked.

            ‘You’ve never brought your Cat to Cambridge?’

            ‘No he’s at home in Bournemouth. Probably asleep on the bed.’

            ‘I meant your fictional Cat.’

            ‘No. Not yet. But there’s an idea…’

            Later, as we walked across Great Court, heading toward the drinks reception in the court beyond, it felt for a moment like we had never left. The setting sun cast long shadows over the court’s central fountain, lighting the great hall from the opposite side, giving the impression it was filled with fire. A light breeze caught the sound of evensong, which then capriciously danced away again. To our left a solitary don plodded across the grass, wearing his robes as if they were as heavy as lead, tired by the Atlas-like task of supporting the weight of his knowledge. Or, given the sway of his vestments, possibly the bottles of port cached within.

            ‘You know what I’ve always hated about cats?’ asked Jim.

            ‘Go on.’

            ‘I’m allergic.’

            ‘But you’re not allergic to spacecraft, right?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘But who knows, you could be allergic to aliens?’

            ‘Perhaps all cats are aliens. I wouldn’t put it past them.’

            ‘I’m just a facilitator, in that case.’

            ‘Just part of their greater plan,’ replied Jim.

            ‘Like we were part of this place’s greater plan?’ I suggested.

            We left Great court, passed the hustle and bustle of the buttery and great hall - the latter offering a glimpse of Holbein’s Henry the 8^th through an open doorway. And then we were part of the crowd of familiar faces: some forgotten, some remembered, some even ignored. We went our separate ways, dancing through the crowd in the Brownian motion that is required of such events.

            And occasionally, I wondered about a group of cats doing the same, drinking pints of milk or even the bubbling fermented stuff, dancing through the shadowy cloisters. As I stepped away from the crowd of humans, they bore me away to the windows which offered a view of the backs. Offering a series of mournful miaows, they pointed at the sky. Something large was descending, something metallic and beautiful and strange. Something not of this world. It settled on the opposite side of the river, shrouded in a pall of steam or smoke.

            There was the peal of a gong, as the hatch beneath the craft opened. A gong struck again, bringing me back into reality: my fellow humans were pouring upwards into the great hall, following the call to dinner. I waved goodbye to the feline horde, then turned away to join my fellow alumni, leaving the cats and their giant spacecraft behind.

END

Author's note: This is a companion piece to the last two Caturday stories. But despite any misgivings suggested above, The Cat will return. Being a capricious creature by nature, exactly when is an entirely different matter...