Nicola Barker - Love Your Enemies

Rosemary watched the concluding sequences of Bergerac and then, after yawning and gently touching and inspecting her still-throbbing bitten hand, stood up, picked up her tea cup and took several steps in the direction of the kitchen. Rasputin saw Rosemary’s lovely chicken legs move away, tensed his body and then sprang at them. He curled his midriff around her left leg with the aid of his front paws and pummelled the calf of this leg with his powerful back paws. He bit whatever flesh came to hand.

Rosemary was taken entirely by surprise. Her immediate impulse was to hit at the cat with the tea mug which she still held in her hand. The mug cracked resolutely against Rasputin’s skull and front teeth. She hit him three times before he released his grip and shot away in the direction of the hallway like a terrier down a rabbit hole.

Rosemary’s legs were substantially cut and bloodied. She dropped the cup — as though it burned her hand — then ran into the kitchen and shut the door. She poured some water into the sink and used some damp kitchen towel to wipe down her leg. After seeing to her cuts and bites she dug around in the cupboard under the sink and located an old pair of Wellington boots which she pulled gently on to each leg. As she completed this task and considered her options the doorbell rang.

Emily was on her doorstep, tired after a long day at work and keen to get her feet up with a nice cup of tea. Rosemary opened the door four or five inches wide and peered out at her. Emily smiled. ‘Can I come in?’ Rosemary looked warily behind her and opened the door slightly wider. She said, ‘I’m sorry Emily, but it’s a bit difficult at the moment.’

Emily’s eyes lit up. ‘Is it Gerald?’ She peered past Rosemary and into the hallway.

Rosemary shook her head. ‘No, it’s this cat I’ve got in the house. He’s a bit wild. I think he might bite you if you come in.’

Emily frowned. ‘Why on earth are you wearing your Wellingtons?’

Rosemary looked down self-consciously. ‘Well, he just bit my legs, so I put these on so he couldn’t bite me again. He’s slightly maladjusted but I’m sure he’ll settle down given time.’

Emily scowled and looked suitably petulant. ‘So I can’t come in for tea and a chat because you’ve got a wild cat rampaging about the house? For God’s sake, Rosemary, get rid of it. You don’t need this sort of responsibility at the moment. You’re too vulnerable. It’s silly.’

Rosemary bit her lip and looked uncomfortable. ‘There’s no need to say it, Emily, I know you’re thinking that I’ve only let this cat into my home because I recently lost Gerald and I’m trying to fill the vacuum that he’s left in my life, but it isn’t like that. I didn’t really invite him in, he sort of …’

Emily interrupted impatiently. ‘I wasn’t going to say that at all. In fact I was going to suggest that you took him to the vet’s in the morning. If he’s a stray he could have worms. Maybe you should have a TB jab if he’s bitten you.’

As Emily spoke, a loud crashing commenced upstairs in the vicinity of Rosemary’s bedroom. Rasputin had located Rosemary’s dressing-table mirror, make-up and perfume. Rosemary smiled apologetically and said, ‘I’m sorry Emily, I must go,’ then closed the door and ran towards the sound.

The following morning — Rasputin had been locked in the hall cupboard for the night, but not without a fight — Rosemary spent several hours luring Rasputin into a strong cardboard box to take him to the vet’s. She decided to wear her Wellingtons in case he escaped in the surgery, although she was sure that she must look rather foolish.

The vet stared uneasily at the howling cardboard box as Rosemary placed it on the surgery table. He said, ‘What’s in there, a banshee?’

Rosemary laughed. ‘No, it’s a cat. He’s called Rasputin. I wanted you to look him over to make sure that he’s in good health. I’ve kind of adopted him. He’s a bit highly strung.’

The vet frowned when he caught sight of Rosemary’s left hand as she used it to push a stray piece of hair behind one of her ears, ‘He’s scratched you to pieces.’

She nodded. ‘He got my legs last night, that’s why I’m wearing my wellies.’

The vet put on a pair of padded gloves and opened the box. Rosemary half expected Rasputin to burst out of the box like a streak of lightning, but he didn’t. So she moved closer to the box and peered inside.

Rasputin was lying in the corner of the box, on his side, limp and frothing. His eyes were rolling about distractedly and his mouth was covered in foam. The vet stared at him for several seconds and then closed the box again. He shook his head and took off his gloves. ‘I’m afraid that I’m going to have to put this animal down.’

Rosemary was devastated, ‘He wasn’t like this before, honestly. He was fine up until now. He’s just a bit erratic. I’m sure he’ll be all right.’

The vet shook his head. ‘He’s obviously brain-damaged. He’s dangerous. It’s kinder to put him out of his misery.’

Rosemary put her arms around the box and picked it up. ‘He hasn’t got brain damage, he’s just been mistreated and is a bit wild. I’m sure I can give him a good home.’

The vet smiled but didn’t look happy. ‘There’s nothing you can do for this animal. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to insist that you give him to me. Keeping him alive is cruel. If you don’t give him to me I’ll be forced to report you to the RSPCA.’

Rosemary didn’t put the box down; she took several steps backwards towards the door. ‘I know he gets excitable, but …’

She thought of the previous evening when she had seen him sitting still in the garden, deep in his reverie, peaceful, benign. ‘Sometimes he can be very gentle and peaceful. I’ve seen it. I’m sure that he’ll be all right.’

She turned and left the surgery.

The following three days were nightmarish. Rasputin took over the upstairs landing and Rosemary’s bedroom. He sprayed this territory with his cat scent and refused to allow Rosemary access to these two rooms. He had the advantage of height — which he used to the best of his ability — so that he could launch attacks on Rosemary from the top step of the stairs, thereby avoiding all intercourse with her Wellington boots. When he wanted feeding he sidled downstairs and mewed plaintively. At these times he seemed almost normal. Unfortunately, as soon as the food had been provided he became intensely tetchy and aggressive. Rosemary took to standing in the garden while he ate, fearing for his digestion and her skin. She bought him a cat litter box but he proudly refused to interact with it. Instead he left sizeable deposits on the carpets and urinated like a giraffe.

On the second day a stranger knocked at Rosemary’s door. She answered promptly, carefully peering up the stairway before venturing into the hall, and stared out at him through the crack in the door.

‘Yes?’

He was tall and muscular and had big square teeth like a sheep or a goat. ‘I’ve come to get the cat. RSPCA.’

He showed her his card. She slammed the door shut, ran into the kitchen and switched the radio on, ignoring the bell’s ringing.

That night Emily phoned. She was brief: ‘Has that cat gone yet, Rosemary?’

Rosemary felt paranoid. ‘Why should he go? No one wants to understand him. I know he’s difficult, but people have mistreated him. He can’t speak to defend himself so I have to defend him.’

Emily sighed and hung up.

On the morning of the third day Rosemary was standing by her rose bushes waiting for Rasputin to finish devouring his breakfast when the RSPCA man sprang into her back garden and pushed her up against the picket fence. She didn’t immediately recognize him. He held on to her arm with one hand and took out his card. He said, ‘Remember me? My name is Bill. I’ve come to get your cat.’