Angel Hunt (31 page)

I'd taken a cigarette from her and broken off the filter tip and thrown it away. As I'd exhaled smoke, I'd asked her about a driver.

‘No chance,' she'd said. Then she'd held up something bright in the moonlight. ‘But I talked Wayne into lending me the keys to his van. Do you think you can drive it?'

‘Has it got wheels?' I'd asked.

 

She passed me another cigarette, having carefully snapped off the filter, and lit it for me so the match glare didn't dazzle me.

‘I don't think Wayne ever drove this fast,' she said, tugging her seat-belt for added security.

I didn't complain. I'd told her to keep talking to keep me awake. Despite the old van being Wayne's travelling advert, with ‘THE FLYING FENMAN' painted down both sides, it had neither radio nor tape-deck.

Stephie's task was to feed me smokes and occasional nips at the whisky bottle, which she did with a great show of distaste as she didn't like it.

‘Keep talking,' I said.

‘What about?'

‘Anything. Just keep me awake.'

‘Do you think fishnet tights are tarty? My father says they're in the same league as ankle bracelets, but Sindy Johnson, who's in my class, has been wearing one for …'

Hunched uncomfortably over the wheel of Wayne's van, with the walking stick instead of my right foot pressing the accelerator to the floorboards, we sped down the motorway.

If I got stopped and arrested now, they'd never believe me.

 

There was zero traffic about, which helped. Probably helped keep us alive.

I stayed on the M1l, which was easier for getting to Hackney, and by some miracle we made it to Stuart Street, intact, by 10.30. Lara had left me my house keys, so we wouldn't have to disturb anybody.

‘Is this where you live?' Stephie asked, not sure at all about getting out of the van.

‘Yes, but don't worry, I just want to collect something.'

‘What?'

A weapon. But I didn't say it.

She helped me up the stairs and into my flat, and the first thing I did was slip the latch on the cat flap in the door. Then I told Stephie to go straight into the kitchen and close all the windows.

I hobbled into the living-room and hit the lights. Springsteen was stretched full length on the Habitat sofa-bed. The remains of a turkey carcass, still with a couple of pounds of meat on it, were spread over my one good rug.

‘Hi yer, kid. Good Christmas?'

He opened one eye and watched me limp over to the bookcase where I stashed my booze. I selected the bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream, which I'd bought for Lisabeth emergencies, and took the top off as I hobbled back into the kitchen.

‘Fancy a night-cap?' I said.

‘Well, if you've got any …' started Stephie.

‘Not you,' I said a bit sharpish, jerking a thumb towards Springsteen, who was stretching his front paws to test if ground level was where he'd left it. ‘Him.'

‘He's eaten the left-overs from your turkey,' said Stephie indignantly.

‘Wasn't my turkey,' I said.

I put down a bowl and poured a good slug of the Bailey's into it. Springsteen flitted through my legs, avoiding my damaged foot but indicating that he'd noted it was a weak spot. His face disappeared into the bowl.

‘Chug-a-lug, my son,' I encouraged.

Stephie was horrified.

‘Isn't it dangerous to get a cat drunk?' she whispered.

‘I certainly hope so.'

 

I didn't want to do Springsteen any harm, of course, but I did want him compliant enough to get him into his travelling basket. And until they make a cat basket out of the steel they use to keep the Great White sharks away from Jacques Cousteau, the only way to do it was get him tipsy.

While he was on his second dishful, I changed into my leather jacket, dug out a pair of leather gloves (however relaxed, he still had claws) and ransacked the bathroom cupboard. In a bottle marked ‘Multivitamin' I kept a supply of benzedrine tablets, which are legal in Germany but not exactly on prescription in Britain. I took two and put two more into the pocket of my jacket.

They wouldn't kill the pain in my foot, but they'd make me forget about it for a while.

I unearthed Springsteen's basket from the back of my bedroom wardrobe (putting that in there is one way of keeping him out) and checked the locking mechanism. Now or never.

I limped up behind him and scooped him in head first.

‘Let's go!' I commanded Stephie, and she ran ahead of me, opening doors and even carrying the basket down the stairs as I couldn't manage it and my walking stick.

By the time we got to the van, he'd stopped hissing and trying to turn full circle. We put the basket in the back. If he did anything unspeakable, it would be Wayne's problem.

‘We should have called the police,' Stephie tried again, as I started the van's engine.

‘We will,' I said. ‘Soon.'

‘Why the big macho man?' she said nastily. It wasn't a game any more. ‘You're going after her because she beat you up and humiliated you, aren't you.'

‘Not at all,' I said, jamming the walking stick on to the accelerator again. ‘She stole my cab.'

 

I used up a year's traffic luck on that ride over to Finchley, with few cars on the road and no sign of a policeman.

I drove by Lara's block of flats once without saying anything to Stephie. There was a light on in the top flat on the left.

Then I threw the van into a U-turn and pulled up outside a telephone box.

‘Got any money?' I asked Stephie, who was sulking but still not quite ready to shout that she wanted to go home.

‘No.'

I gave her a handful of silver from my jacket and the piece of paper Prentice had given me with his private numbers on.

‘Ring these first and ask to speak to Detective-Sergeant Prentice. Got that? If you can't get him, dial 999 and say there is a bomb in a car – yes, say it's in a car – at the home of Professor Brian Bamforth. Okay?'

‘Where is that?'

‘What?'

‘They'll ask where this Professor Prentice lives.'

‘Professor
Bamforth
and
Sergeant
Prentice. Do try and keep up. And I don't flamin' well know, but they will. Just keep saying it until they believe you.'

‘Where will you be?'

‘Over there.' I pointed to the block of flats.

‘Be careful.'

‘We will.'

 

The bennies were taking effect and the pain seemed almost bearable as I limped across the road, walking stick in one hand, Springsteen's basket in the other. He'd adopted the basic cat defence of increasing his weight at will and seemed intent on wrecking the last remaining muscles in my left arm.

I made it, though, and my luck held. The main door to the flats wasn't security locked. If nothing else, I could always grass on them to their insurance company.

I took the lift up to Lara's floor and, just in case, I held the walking stick aloft as the doors opened. There was nobody in the corridor. Two doors, the one on the right Lara's.

Without the benzedrine and the whisky, I would probably have stopped there and asked myself how I would get her to open the door. But in my state, I don't think it occurred to me.

I put the basket down, leant the stick against the wall, and removed a semi-docile Springsteen, who by now weighed about a ton and seemed to be at least six feet long.

He stretched out a paw lazily. It seemed to go on forever, and I had the distinct impression he was reaching for the doorbell.

I wasn't having any of that. That was my job. I pressed once, and the dull ding-dong echoed from inside.

The door handle turned and a lock snapped and I was watching it in slow motion.

She was saying ‘Who … ?' when I put what was left of my shoulder muscles to the door, and as she flashed into view, I threw Springsteen at her face with as much force as I could muster.

 

 

 

 

 

It worked better than I thought it would; in fact, it was altogether quite spectacular. Springsteen hit and stuck like a limpet.

The reason was twofold. He found a neutral purchase in the material of her sweatshirt, locking his claws in above her breasts and swinging as the shirt stretched but didn't rip. Lara helped by flapping at him, desperately wanting to swat him but determined not to actually touch him if she could help it.

She didn't scream, but it looked as if she was, with the sound turned down, lips curled back and mouth open wide as she back-pedalled across the room. Springsteen hung in there, his back legs digging into her stomach to get a better grip. He wanted to go up and over her. By backing away, she was trying to make him fall backwards and down – two directions not found in a cat's operational manual. It looked as if he was trying to get at her neck, like an illustration I'd once seen of the legendary Japanese cat vampire. (They have two tails, though; that's how you can spot them.)

They were almost across the room when she met the coffee table with the back of her knees and went over backwards herself. The table collapsed under her weight and the back of her head hit the carpet with a dull thud. Springsteen rode her fall and then bounced loose up in the air, landing about an inch from Lara's face. That showed at least that his reactions weren't totally shot. Most cats at that point would have dived for cover. Springsteen stayed where he landed, looked down at Lara's face with precision rather than malice and flicked out his right front paw. It had always been his best punch. Three parallel sets of claw marks appeared on her right cheek, about half an inch apart. Then she screamed.

I think Springsteen was more surprised by that than by anything else that had happened so far. He leapt sideways and began to look for escape routes.

I stepped into the room and slammed the door just as Springsteen was about to dive through my legs. I grabbed him and hugged him to my chest more to immobilise his claws than out of affection. His tail, fluffed up to four times its normal size, swished at my thighs, and just to show he wasn't pleased, he playfully bit my gloved thumb.

Lara sat upright and touched her cheek. She was still in silent scream mode, mouth wide open and nostrils flared, and she was looking at her hands in disbelief.

It wasn't the few small droplets of blood, little more than specks, that worried her, it was hair. Springsteen's winter coat, quite luxuriant at its best, was prone to moulting, and the relatively mild winter we were having in London hadn't helped.

She rubbed her hands down the front of her sweatshirt, and that just made things worse. Then I realised she wasn't trying to scream, she was trying to breathe. And then she started shaking. She was having a panic attack trying to avoid an allergy attack.

I took a step towards her and said, ‘Hello again.'

She shuffled backwards, still in a sitting position, kicking at the wreckage of the coffee table as if it were somehow restraining her.

I took two more steps, and she went back further until her spine hit the wall near the bedroom door. She flung out her arms, and her fingers scrabbled at the paintwork. I heard a nail break.

‘Where's Armstrong, Lara?' I said slowly.

She wasn't looking at me; she hadn't looked at me at all. Her gaze was fixed on Springsteen.

Then her breath came in long, ragged wheezes almost as if she was trying to blow bubbles in her throat. It sounded awful, and each heave of her chest made her upper torso quiver. She sneezed then, and the effort racked her more.

‘Where did you leave the cab, Lara?' I asked again, moving to sit on the edge of an armchair within five feet of her. A few hours before, I would have settled on five miles being the safest distance between us.

She sneezed again, then wheezed. The bubbling sound was giving way to a dry rasping noise that seemed to fascinate Springsteen. He stopped kicking against me and turned his head to look at her. She turned her head away quickly as if trying to sink into the wall, but her eyes flashed back immediately.

I edged forward as if offering Springsteen to her.

‘Don't want to make friends?'

‘Get ... it ... away …' she gasped, then sneezed twice. Her legs, splayed out in front of her, were quivering now.

‘Where did you leave the cab, Lara? Just tell me and I'll take him away.'

‘Aaa …. aaa … Abberton … St … str …'

Abberton Street? Christ, I'd just driven past that.

‘Abberton Street? The one round the corner?'

She nodded, and the air rattled in her throat. It was like watching somebody drown, without the water.