Jack Strange - Zomcats!

A stone whistled past Bob Slawit’s ear, missing it by millimetres and almost knocking him off balance.

“Ha, ha ha! Nice one, Nipper!” Said Bigfucka Briggs.

Bigfucka was the leader of the Savages, a teenage gang that had been terrorising the villagers of Nobblethwaite for months.

Encouraged by the words of his leader, Nipper Davies pranced up behind Slawit and gave him an energetic kick up the backside. Slawit turned on his attacker, waving his white stick angrily. Unfortunately he was unable to see much more than a dark shadow which danced nimbly out of range as he swung his stick at it.

“I’ll ’ave yer, yer little fucking bastard,” he fumed impotently, as more stones came his way. “I’ll make yer bloody well pay.”

As the word ‘pay’ left his lips, a particularly large stone hit him on the forehead. He staggered backward from the force of it, blood spurting onto the cobbles from the wound it had made. He dropped his stick and covered the wound with his veined old hands.

“Yer little fucking bastards,” he repeated, as another kick up the backside sent him sprawling onto the cobbles.

“I’ll fucking have yer, I’ll fucking well have the lot of yer,” he said, waving his fists in the air, as boot after teenage boot landed sickeningly in his ribs.

Slawit had spent most of the afternoon sinking pints of real ale in the Ne’er do well, the only pub in the village.

After that, he’d gone to the Nobblethwaite McDonald’s and enjoyed a Mega-Bucket of Extra-Thick Blackcurrant Milk shake which had bits of something gritty alleged to be real pieces of blackcurrant floating about in it. As the boots struck home, Slawit felt the milk shake and the eight pints of real ale he’d drunk sloshing about his insides in a sinister way.

A boot caught him in the pit of his stomach.

He rolled onto his back and opened his mouth to say “Oh fuck,” but no words came out.

Instead, a dark purple fountain spurted from his mouth at high pressure. In size and ferocity it resembled a volcanic eruption. It shot into the air, forcefully covering his attackers in vomit. It coated them all liberally, and they fled in disgust, covered in foul-smelling goo.

Once they’d gone, Marjory, the kindly old lady who ran the village bakery, came out of her shop and helped Bob to his feet.

“They’re right little terrors, that lot Bob,” she said.

“That’s not the word I’d use to describe them,” he replied. “I’d describe them as right little fucking bastard twats.”

“Well, I don’t blame you. I just hope they ’aven’t hurt you.”

“You what? You hope they haven’t hurt me? Did you see what they did? Course they fucking well hurt me, the little fucking bastard twats.”

“I’m sorry. I would have helped but I’m scared to death of ’em. I didn’t want to risk getting beat up me self, and nor did anyone else round here. We’re all scared to death of ’em.”

“What about that copper we have that’s meant to be on the village beat? Constable Bryson. Why didn’t he come to help me?”

“There’s been a lot of coppers made redundant from up at the Nab police station, Bob. So Constable Bryson has to cover ten villages now. He only comes to Nobblethwaite every second Monday and on Bank Holidays.”

“I’ll go and ask that gang of young twats to wait till a week on Monday or the next May Day Bank Holiday to beat me up next time then, eh? That way Copper Bryson might have some chance of seeing ’em at it and arresting someone.”

Marjory picked up Slawit’s stick and handed it to him.

“I’m very sorry Bob, truly I am.”

“Sorry if I was a bit short with yer. I was angry that’s all. It’s a good job I were shit-faced cos if I hadn’t been I would have felt every one of those bloody kicks. I’ll see thee Marjory.”

“Bye bye Bob. Take care, now.”

“I will.”

Slawit made his uncertain way to the side of the road and tapped around with his white stick to get his bearings, and then he tapped his way up Nodger Hill, the steep incline which led to Slawit Hall, his home, which was perched alone on the top of the hill, a mile outside Nobblethwaite.

When he got there, he heard a meowing noise as he opened his front door.

“Who are you, little pussycat?” He asked. He bent down and let the cat rub its face against his hand; then he stroked the cat under its chin and felt a collar and name tag. He ran his fingers over the name tag and felt the engraved lettering with his fingertips.

“Henderson,” he said. “So that’s your name. Where have you come from? You better come in.”

He pushed open the door and felt the cat rub against his legs.

“Now then,” he said. “I expect you’ll want something to eat.”

“Meeow. Meeow. Meeeeooow.”

“I’m not hungry me self, but I’ll get you something.”

He opened a kitchen cupboard. It was full of tins. He felt around with his hand.

“I think you’ll like this, lad,” he said. “I’m pretty sure it’s got some meat in it.”

He opened the tin and scraped the contents onto a side plate, and put the plate on the floor.

The cat sniffed it and walked away.

“Meeow,” he said again.

“What?” Slawit asked. “You couldn’t have eaten it that quickly. That’s not possible.”

He reached to the floor and felt around and soon enough his fingers encountered a pile of stewed steak in gravy.

“You fussy little bugger,” he said. “Well, if you’re not ’aving that, I am. I’ll save it for me self to eat later.”

He put the plate in his fridge and felt around for the leftover bacon he had on the top shelf.

“You can have this instead.”

He threw the bacon onto the floor and Henderson let out a snarl and pounced on it.

He held the meat down with his abnormally large paws, and tore bits from it with his sharp teeth.

“I’ve never heard a cat sound like you do. Yer sound more like a lion than any cat I’ve ever met,” said Slawit, when he heard the sound of Henderson’s voracious eating.

“Meeow, meeow, meeeeooow.”

“You can’t still be hungry. There must ’ave been at least three quarters of a pound of bacon there. Hang on, I’ll see what else I can get yer.”

Slawit groped around the inside of his fridge, and found four beef sausages. He lobbed them onto the kitchen floor. Then he heard a snarling, chewing sound followed by a purring sound. Then:

“Meeow, meeow, meeeeooow.”

“For fuck’s sake, I can’t keep up with yer. I haven’t got any more food left in the house. You’ll have to wait till tomorrow to be fed, when I next go to the shops.”

Slawit went to his front room and tried to read one of his brail books, but it was impossible because of the noise.

“Meeow, meeow, meeeeooow.”

“Fucking hell,” he said after a while. “I’ve had enough.”

He went to the front door and opened it.

“Go on,” he said. “Out yer go.”

“Meeow, meeow, meeeeooow.”

As Henderson was showing no inclination to leave, Slawit went over to where he thought the cat’s meowing was coming from, and prodded around with his white stick. He didn’t mean to hurt Henderson; merely to shift him out of the house.

Henderson began playing with the end of the stick, and grabbed it in his mouth. When Slawit found he couldn’t move the stick any more, he tried to push Henderson away with his boot. Henderson let go of the stick and playfully sank his teeth into Slawit’s boot then pulled them out again.