Alex Howard - Library Cat

Voraciously, Library Cat tucked in until his hunger and the drama of the day before was little more than a memory. Happily he purred, smacked his lips, and thought about how he could never think ill of his cousin again, and that he must write to him and say “je suis désolé” and invite him back again, until he finally dozed off for a delicious mid-morning nap fatefully forgetting all about the Human’s peculiar behaviour earlier and the broken vase.

The next thing Library Cat knew he was in a box. A grilled door had slammed shut and he was being carried. I must’ve been cornered in the laundry room! The box lumbered haphazardly with the gait and enormous strides of the Human carrying it, and Library Cat felt as if he were a cormorant riding the great waves of an Atlantic storm. Now he was outside and in one of the great machines that regularly parked along the perimeters of the square as it whirred and clanged, and seemed to speed up, faster and faster… When it was moving, it vibrated like a washing machine, and when it was still, it purred softly like a great cat. Sometimes, when it was still, Library Cat managed to peer through the grilled box door at his Human who was just ahead of him. The Human sat drumming his fingers on a big circular wheel as if waiting for something, while a little velvety click-click-click-click sounded in unison with a tiny green arrow that flashed either left or right in a panel behind a great wheel. Then, all would be a fury of motion again, and the machine would turn a sharp corner forcing Library Cat to raise his paw perpendicular to himself in order that he might save himself rolling over and over, like a speck of dirt in a cyclone-separator or a ball in a raffle machine.

Stop! Stop! Stop! thought Library Cat. But his thoughts licked like silent red flames through his head; a tiny brain-box, inside his carrying-box, which was inside the big Human machine-box. A Russian doll of boxes. And Library Cat’s screaming brain was like the smallest doll in the very centre – hidden, yet blaring with the colour and symbolism of a million pogroms.

Maybe I’m going to London? speculated Library Cat suddenly as he recalled Saaf Landan Tom’s description of something called “The London Underground”. Apparently, where Tom lived, there were large buildings that smelt of shoe polish and inside them there were things called escalators – great, endlessly lapping tongues of steel – that carried the Humans deep underground into a stomach of sinister noises and smells. A veritable cat hell. And if that wasn’t enough, the Humans then packed themselves, often thousands of them in one go, onto these long, narrow pieces of concrete called “platforms” that were only a few feet wide while awaiting the arrival of a massive, terrifying piston to scream towards them, plunging a fug of filthy air into their eyes. They would then climb into the piston, and disappear to another shoe-polishy-smelling building where they would re-emerge. Saaf Landan Tom’s description had haunted Library Cat ever since.

“This torture-prison… How long do they remain there? Until they confess their crime?” Library Cat had asked.

“Nah, nah, nah, nah mate… The ’umans go dahn there outa choice.”

“Choice?!”

“Yeah, mate. They go dahn there to get uva places in Landan, innit.”

“Other places?”

“Yeah.”

“But, why?”

“Coz loadza people liv’ in Landan. The roads are too full so they ’av to move people abaht unda’ the ground.”

“But we have plenty of space up here. Why do they cram themselves in down there?”

“Sumfin’ called ‘The Economy’.”

“What’s that?”

“Dunno.”

“Well it must be great, whatever it is, to make all those horrors worthwhile. Tell me, Tom, do the Humans live especially well in London? I assume they have plenty of time to read, muse, eat and relax to make up for this ‘Underground’ torture?”

“Nah. The opposite, mate. My last owna’ paid £600 a monf, to live under some stairs, and eats only sumfin’ called ‘pasta’.”

“Then can we agree, Tom, that this is the definitive proof of the insanity of Humankind?”

“Totally, mate.”

Library Cat sniffed the air. As far as he could tell he couldn’t pick up any traces of shoe polish.

So long as it’s not London, I should be fine , thought Library Cat.

Eventually, the noisy box slowed, reversed slightly, and then came to a standstill. Soon Library Cat felt himself being hoisted out. The Weetabixy smell of Edinburgh hit his nostrils once more and he felt calmer. He was still in the same city. Through the slatted mesh of his box he could see Humans everywhere, but they didn’t look like students. Instead they walked quickly, and wore impressive clothes. The ladies had button-noses and grouted faces, and the men had shiny, ebony-coloured shoes and suits. Beneath his box, Library Cat saw the gum-freckled pavement flash past, along with bright coloured sweet wrappers and cardboard cups. Now the air was thick with the braided din of sirens and buses, interspersed with the odd “Ding! – Ding! – Ding!” as a long snake-like vehicle on rails glided across the road as if by magic.

Seems perfectly horrendous. Maybe I am in London? postulated Library Cat to himself as his owner rounded a corner and pushed open a door.

Suddenly there was a waft of antiseptic and the squelchy sound of rubber floors. Library Cat froze.

The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!! The Vet!!!

Library Cat cried, and began writhing like a snared fox. His Human raised him up and stared in through the gauze at his face.

“There, there, Library Cat!”

Don’t you “there-there” me, you ***!@^&$%!** TRAITOR!! LET ME OUT NOW! Not here, not here, not here. PLEASE NOT HERE. Anywhere BUT HERE! Traitor, YOU BLASTED TRAITOR! Bath, The Rain, The Black Dog, Collars, Fireworks… London. Anything BUT HERE! You said NEVER AGAIN. DAMN YOU, HUMAN! You ************* TRAITOR, DAMN YOU.

“Library Cat, calm yourself! It will be OK!”

“Sir, would you like to place Library Cat on the table? Do you want to be present for the procedure?”

Not The Green Human, not The Green Human!

“Er, yes, I’ll stay and talk to him, if that’s OK. Um… any chance of a cup of tea?”

CUP OF TEA? Who do you think you are, the Queen of Sheba, you TRAITOR, you…

“Of course, black or white, sir?”

“Um, black please?”

Huh, yeah!! Black: the colour of your SOUL, treacherous Human!! Doesn’t surprise me Human…!

“OK. Karen, would you get the gentleman a black tea?”

Yes, feel free to spike it from ME, Karen!

“Right just pop his box on the table. How long did you say he’s been suffering for?”

About ten minutes now, you cretins?

“Um… about two weeks?”

Two Weeks? Do you live in a world of fiction…?!

“OK, it’s quite a simple procedure. The X-ray shows there’s three stones in his bladder, but there might be a couple more now. They often form during periods of anxiety. Did you keep him in on fireworks night?”