I explained that Jo had called me at the theatre to say “Look after the cat” – and he was quite cross with me then, because what she said suggested she was intending to go away. But she hasn’t gone away. What it feels like – I didn’t say this to Sergeant Duggan – but what it feels like is that she’s been taken by aliens. And it also feels like the abduction happened within the last half hour. I keep expecting the J-Dog to come trotting past, asking for a pat. I keep expecting chairs to be still warm when I sit down – and sometimes I get a real start when they are warm – Roger having just hopped down when he heard me coming. A really perverse cat, Roger. Since I first got here, there’s been this sort-of scratching noise from the wall with the fireplace in it, and you’d think – as a cat – he’d be desperate to investigate. But he’s lain there calmly in Jo’s high-backed armchair, just a couple of feet away from the source of this suspicious scratching noise, swinging his tail and ignoring it absolutely.
The policeman asked if he could look at Jo’s mobile – and of course, that was clever of him, so I said yes. But although it was still plugged into the charger, it turned out to have sort-of died. And when he picked it up, he said “Agh!” and dropped it (it was all sticky, he said). Anyway, he reckoned I should take it in to Worthing to see what could be retrieved from the “Sim card” (God, I hate all that kind of stuff), and he helped me use rubber gloves to put it in a plastic bag.
I have to admit it: he was much more observant than me; I suppose it’s the training. In Jo’s studio upstairs, he found a half-finished watercolour of Roger, and heaps of sketches for it all over the floor. I hadn’t noticed. He also asked about a pair of binoculars and a note book, with times noted down in it, right by the window next to an old, cold mug of tea. “Tuesday, 10:05. Next door garden. Partial.” That kind of thing. Jo being a birdwatcher was news to me. But the big window in the studio would have been a good place to do it. Lovely view across to the English Channel and the horizon. He asked if anything significant had changed in Jo’s life recently, and I said, “Well, yes. Roger” and he seemed quite annoyed with me again for not saying anything about Roger earlier. He made a note of the name and drew a circle round it and asked for a surname – which was when I realised he thought Roger was a lover or murder suspect, so I quickly explained that Roger was a cat, and he crossed it out. So I didn’t explain she’d only had Roger a few months – took him on when her old Chelsea Arts Club chum Michael died in Lincolnshire, falling downstairs. Likewise, I didn’t draw attention to the way Roger had definitely made himself at home here. He was sitting in the lane as I approached in the car; when he saw me coming, he just stood up, stretched, and trotted indoors.
Now this is the crazy bit. Woo hoo. Right. I mean it, this is absolutely crazy. Maybe I shouldn’t even write it down. But all right, I was sitting at the kitchen table last night, drinking some of Jo’s impressive stock of cheap pink plonk – which is disgusting, a bit like drinking melted lollies, but I was bloody desperate – and Roger was clawing at the back door, wanting me to open it for him. And I suppose I was in a bit of a trance. I mean, it’s very unsettling not knowing where Jo is! I keep testing the phone line; I’ve been in touch with everyone I can think of; I’ve checked her computer and her diary, which felt really awful, really wrong. But I have to do these things, don’t I? I don’t know where she is! I didn’t say this to the plod, for obvious reasons, but I’ve also checked all the grass in the area for tell-tale scorch marks, because in my opinion alien abduction is emerging as by far the most likely explanation. So anyway, I’m ignoring Roger, like I said, and he’s saying “Miaow, miaow, miaow” at the door.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I did. But what happens is this. He suddenly jumps up on the table, sits down in front of me, puts a paw over my glass and says, distinctly, “Let me out.” I look at him. I feel a tingling in my head. I look at the paw. He doesn’t move it. We look into each other’s eyes for about ten seconds. And then he jumps back down on the floor and claws at the door again, saying “Miaow, let miaow, miaow, miaow, LET ME OUT.”
AUDIO ONE
“In your own time,” says Wiggy. He sounds quite upper-class. I can’t imagine why this is a surprise, but it is. I picture Wiggy as a feckless type, of course. An actor, in silly farces, in provincial theatres. He went to a good school. Floppy hair, I shouldn’t wonder. Mustard-coloured corduroys at weekends. From internal evidence, this recording must date from at least a week after Wiggy’s first so-called “thoughts” about Roger – but there is no dating whatever on these documents; as files, they were all saved on the same date in December when Dr Winterton sent them to me, which is quite unhelpful. As soon as I can, I will check when See How They Run! was last playing at the Belgrade Theatre in Coventry. Thus far, it is my only clue.
The quality of this recording is not of the best. Background noises sometimes obtrude. And when there is any sudden sound, such as Wiggy coughing (of course, he smokes!), the recorder reacts, and Roger’s words are rendered temporarily less audible. Also, Roger sometimes swallows his words in a miaow – possibly deliberately. As King George VI says in that highly successful film The King’s Speech, a couple of stammers “thrown in” serves to remind the British people – to whom he broadcasts – that it’s really him. I have no doubt Roger operates on the same intelligent and witty principle with his occasional miaows. As you will see, Roger is an astonishing individual. But I said I would refrain from editorialising. I genuinely intend to do my best.
The following is a faithful transcription of what can be clearly heard in the file marked “Audio One.” If it is helpful to know this, Roger does sound a bit like Vincent Price. Essentially, it is Roger’s life story, told in his own words. I have long since ceased to care that every aspect of this monologue – the teller; the telling; and above all, what is told – is technically utterly impossible.
“This is like Interview with the Vampire,” says Roger.
“Really? I never saw it,” says Wiggy.
“Shame,” says Roger. (He says “Sha-a-a-me” in a beautiful feline singsong.) “The parallels are so amusing.” (“A-mewwsing,” ditto.)
Wiggy says (without thinking): “Oh God. You’re not a vampire, are you?”
A long sigh from Roger. One sympathises with his problem here. “No, not a vampire,” he says, quietly. And then he begins.
“I was born in 1927 in the East End of London, and before you tell me that’s impossible, Wiggy –” (You can almost hear the tiny mechanism in Wiggy’s brain doing the mental arithmetic) “– may I remind you that a cat talking into this recording device is impossible enough, but I think you will agree that it is nevertheless definitely occurring.
“So. I repeat, I was born in 1927 in the East End of London, close to the Roman Road market. My mother was very beautiful, and very young. I never knew my father, but that’s pretty standard for cats, so please don’t bother trying to read much into it, although I have to admit that a sort of father-fixation – with its associated rejection issues – has arguably been a theme of my whole life. Have you read much Freud, Wiggy?”
“Er, no,” Wiggy says. He sounds a bit startled by the question, and you can’t really blame him. In any case, Roger clearly isn’t interested in discussion.
“My brothers and I learned to scavenge and hunt,” he goes on. “We played at fighting, as all kittens do; we made adequate progress. There were four of us all born together – Alf, Arthur, me and little Bill – but we were reduced to three when my brother Bill was killed by a cart-horse when we were six months old.”
There is a pause. Wiggy starts to ask, “Are you all right?” But Roger resumes.
“I must say,” he says reflectively, “I thought Mother would be more affected by the loss of little Bill.”
You can hear how shocked he was by this; how hurt by extension, of course, at how little his mother would have grieved for any of her offspring, including him.
“I was just a year old when I met the Captain. In the inter
vening six months I had often visited the spot where little Bill had met his end, and I had sometimes been aware of a large black cat watching me there. I assumed that one day this cat would expect me to fight, and although I wasn’t looking forward to it, I was big enough, so it was bound to happen. In the cat world you don’t really choose who you fight, you see. But although we met each other in the conventional way – backs arched, tails erect, teeth bared, circling with our claws digging into the dust – he disarmed me by saying, “You miss him, don’t you?” In my surprise, my back dropped down, my tail flopped. No one had ever said anything like this to me before. I was confused. “Your little brother,” he said. “It was a senseless way to go.”
“And then he walked off, and I followed him. It was the turning-point of my life. If I hadn’t followed the Captain, what a different story would be mine. A straightforward cat’s life around the Roman Road, circa 1930. I’d have survived (if I was lucky) to about the age of six. I’d have fathered dozens of kittens. I’d have used up all my so-called “nine lives” in mundane ways, such as recovering from drunken blows, losing my tail in some old housewife’s wringer, getting stuck for weeks in a garden shed. Such was the everyday fate of the other members of my family, certainly. Although I never saw them again, I found out later that Alf was run over by a number 30 bus when he was two, and I heard that Arthur made it to five years old but was rounded up and taken to Battersea Dog’s Home, where the story goes that he was gassed. I don’t know how anyone can be sure of that. But it’s sad to think your last sibling was lost to you in 1932, the year the Mars Bar was first produced, the Lindbergh baby was kidnapped and the Sydney Harbour Bridge was opened. I very much doubt you can imagine it.”
Wiggy, realising something is required, makes some sort of hopeless mumble. Perhaps he’s making a mental note of the interesting fact about the Mars Bar.
“What I do know,” resumes Roger, “is that Mother had two more litters and then collapsed and died in Victoria Park in 1932, under a favourite tree. I suppose every animal from a fatherless background thinks the same as me, but in all my years I’ve honestly never seen a more beautiful cat than Mother.”
Wiggy takes advantage of a natural pause. “I expect I’m being thick,” he says. He clears his throat. “But when this other cat – this captain – spoke to you, do you mean the way you’re speaking to me now? Or was it some sort of cat language?”
Roger is incensed at his stupidity.
“Of course it was cat language! I just told you, I was only a year old! I’d spent my kittenhood in the slums!”
Wiggy is clearly mortified. But I must admit I’m rather glad to hear him on the back foot like this. He really is out of his intellectual depth with Roger.
“Don’t be like that,” Wiggy says. “It’s just that you seem to take it for granted that you can talk.”
“I don’t take it for granted at all. You’re the one with the problem.”
“No, I’m not. Look, how do you explain – ?”
Roger interrupts. “Wiggy, if you can’t get past the fact that I can talk, perhaps I should stop.”
“No, please. I’m sorry. You’re really touchy.” Wiggy laughs, and attempts a joke. “I mean, you know. Keep your fur on. You were following the Captain.”
“I know I was following the Captain! You don’t have to tell me I was following the Captain!”
There is no sound in reply from Wiggy. In fact, you will be pleased to hear that Wiggy does his best not to provoke Roger again for the rest of this recording. The incendiary expression “Keep your fur on” is thankfully never reprised.
“So, yes. I followed the Captain. I made my choice. I expect I was inwardly proud that he seemed to have sensed something special in me. I had no idea what was in store. He led me into an old warehouse, all the way silent. There were so many things I wanted to ask him, but I knew he would only speak when we were safely alone together. ‘Here we are,’ he said, when we were finally inside. He spoke in a weary way. I didn’t know then how old he was. I didn’t know how many times he had gone through this process before. ‘You’re wondering why I picked you out,’ he said. ‘Let’s just say I had a hunch about you.’ I looked round. From the darkness, I was sure I could hear the far-off groaning of an injured cat.
“ ‘Is there someone else here?’ I said. I hoped I didn’t give away how anxious I was.
“ ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain to you later. If there is a later.’
“ ‘What do you mean?’
“ ‘Well, here we are.’ He sat down right in front of me, his huge green eyes looking right into mine. Being captured by his gaze filled me with a strange mixture of terror and blissful joy. He leaned forward and said, very quietly, ‘Has anyone ever talked to you about cats having nine lives?’
“And then, before I could say anything, he lashed at me with massive ferocity, slashing my throat. My blood gushed out, fell like heavy rain to the ground; I stumbled and fell, weakly, feeling the pulse of my heart pumping my tiny young life out of me as I lay there, helpless. I remember that I felt surprise – utter surprise – but no resentment, no anger. In some ways, I didn’t really mind that I was going. I thought briefly of Mother, but then remembered – without rancour – that she probably wouldn’t miss me very much. A happy memory of little Bill came back, which made me smile. And then my Mother’s special smell filled me up – filled me with almost unbearable comfort – and I succumbed to death.
“When I woke, I was desperately thirsty and my eyes hurt. They were like rocks in my head. Obviously, my main feeling was confusion – but these physical sensations were powerful too. My paws felt as if someone else’s had been tied on top of my own. My tail was so heavy, I could hardly lift it. The captain was watching me as if he had never moved. How long had I been dead? He pushed a water bowl towards me, and I drank every drop from it. He didn’t speak, and I was too frightened to break the silence. Yet I had no urge to escape. I trusted him. He had just killed me – hadn’t he? I had felt myself die. And yet I trusted him. After all, here I was, alive! My throat appeared to have healed itself. The blood on the floor had dried. Whatever had happened, somehow the Captain had it under his control.
“For the following few days, he brought me food and I got stronger. And then, on the seventh day, he said “Follow me,” and led me to another part of the building. This time, I didn’t care if he knew I was afraid. ‘Captain, please,’ I said. ‘I need you to explain what’s happening.’ But he shook his head and we made our way into the darkness, in the direction of the groaning I had heard when we first came in. He stopped on the edge of a pit about fifteen feet deep. It was too dark to see to the bottom, but I could detect movement down there, and smell an overpowering stench of animal decay. I could hear cracked and laboured breathing, and the unmistakeable squeak of rats – a sound that drives any cat crazy with loathing and bloodlust. ‘You’ll understand soon,’ he said – and knocked me in. I screamed as I fell; I also screamed as I landed. Lining the bottom of this pit were the decomposing bodies of at least a dozen cats – their loose fur horrible under my paws, their dying breaths still hanging vilely in the air. Rats swarmed round me, climbed over me. I struggled to breathe, lashing out in all directions. ‘Help me,’ said a voice close by, and then there was a dreadful, feeble wailing.
“I was down there for six whole days before I expired. My death was caused by a combination of dehydration, asphyxiation, and rat-induced dementia. This second demise had none of the emotional consolations of the first. In fact, it was the worst of all the deaths. It’s no wonder that the Captain always placed the pit second in the sequence. As he explained to me in the fullness of time, very few cats rose out of the pit and made it to their third life – let alone made it eventually (as I did, so amazingly) to their ninth.”
Roger stops. “You look confused, Wiggy,” he says.
Wiggy evidently shrugs his answer. “Nngh?” is all I can hear. He lights a cigarette and sighs. One can hardly blame hi
m for his slowness to grasp what Roger is telling him. I must admit that, in his shoes, I would have struggled to come up with a meaningful response myself.
Finally, with a struggle, he takes a drag on the cigarette and says, “Nine lives, then?”
“It is quite a big idea to take in, I suppose,” says Roger.
“It is, yes.”
“Just cling on to that idea.”
“Of the nine lives?”
“Yes.”
“All right, but –”
“Just think about what a strange belief it is – every cat has nine lives. Why do humans say that? Where did you get such a bizarre idea? Why do you pass it on? The Captain used to say how typical it was that while all humans seemed to know the saying about cats having nine lives, not one of you had stopped to find out what it really meant – so you applied it, pathetically, to the famous luck of cats in surviving mundane accidents.”
He pauses. Wiggy swallows. He manages a feeble laugh. “Ridiculous,” he says.
“In fact,” says Roger, “as the Captain explained to me, every cat literally has the capacity within him to survive eight deaths.”
“Right.”
“Up until, say, two thousand years ago, all cats had powers unimaginable to the average cat today. The species has been vastly diminished by time and domestication. In the modern world only one cat in a million has the character, the spirit, the sheer indomitable life force to fulfil that universal feline destiny of nine lives as part of a conscious programme of self-completion. I am that one in a million. And if I seem quite pleased with myself – well, so would you if you’d survived the shit I had to go through. My initiation through the Captain was long and merciless, a symphony of pain and despair. And it got worse and worse. What one has to take into account is that the risk of failure – the risk that I would die for good the next time the Captain killed me – kept growing, exponentially.