Cat Outside the Box

Running. Running. Running. Stop!

Pounce!

"Rory!" 

The dog snapped its head round to hail its owner, struggling five steps behind. 

Dave stumbled to keep up with his wayward hound, one he'd rescued years ago from ex-police service. 

Rory loved sniffing and chasing smells just as much as any other dog, but it was different when he found a few particular smells, which weren't so uncommon around this part of town… 

"Rory!" 

His dog leapt over a dustbin lid with a clatter, hopped from one bin bag to another, paws leaving slashes in their wake. He scampered. He scarpered. Down a side street. 

Dave followed, panting. 

"Where are you going? Where are you?" 

The chasing pair wound around, from alleyway to underpass to sidestreet to bridge and back again. Under the bridge that smells like piss. Past the parade of fading takeaway shops and cornershop stores. 

Dave loved his dog. Rory was certainly the man's best friend - his favourite hound in the world - but sometimes when he got off the lead he could be a pain the 

"Rory!'

And police dogs were strong. And police dogs were tough and didn't listen once they'd got a trail. It was harder keeping a dog under control than any of the rough-un's he'd arrested or run into back in his younger days of policing. Back then before 

Rory sled round a corner and out of sight. 

Dave was so out of breath, he wanted to throw up. 

And then he saw it. A cat. A small grey cat, fluffy but spry, springing for all its life away from Rory. 

Just a cat. Oh, even worse! The chase may never end. 

Limping, hopping, he tried his best to keep up - never able to fully settle into a rhythm. 

Rory had finally stopped. 

Dave gasped. They were outside an old church building which had been bombed into dereliction in the second world war. An old, graffitied, worn out, abandoned shell.

Rory stood on the front steps, where a heavy black rag swung back and forth like a pendulum in the wind. Slow and gentle. 

The cat was gone. 

But - Rory was too. Oh shit!

Dave paced back and forth. He sank to his knees, panting, panting. Oh Rory!

He heard a mew from behind the black rag. 

With a red hot rage, Dave marched towards the church entrance. His dog must be around somewhere. He'd chase him to the ends of the earth. Anything to avoid another fatal mistake like that day. 

Enough! He swept aside the rag. 

Inside, the church was a wreck of colour - a few tracing rays of light shone through shards of stained glass, but even more than that, balls of colours and furs were spilling from the pews and stonework, the holes and wreckage - cats. Dozens and dozens of them. Cats, and cats and cats, but no dog to be seen. 

And in the centre of it all, back against the pulpit, lay a hooded figure, in a jacket, slanted cherry beret hat and many layers of multicolour, musty rags and fabric. 

A gypsy. With an army of cats. 

His skin prickled. 

He rummaged inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a flashlight. His hand brushed his trusty penknife and his mobile phone. Good. He may not be in the police force anymore, but he knew when to be wary and how to sort out gypsies if he had to. 

As he advanced into the old building, the scene became stranger still.

In dark corners of the church, where sunlight didn't reach, there stood a tall white bird - a stork? No? With blacker feathers, a crown of speckled dots and a fierce, orange beak. Standing there - just watching. 

And behind a pillar at the back of the church. A sign for the toilet. A door bisected. Water flooding out in a little pool and a beaver - was it not? A huge rat - a huge beaver, yes, it had to be, with that fat leathery tail and two huge teeth that flashed like little stars in the darkness. 

Dave shivered. He took another look at the heap of rags and coats in the centre of the church. They hadn't moved. 

Atop the pulpit, the small grey cat from before was perched, watching him. 

All of a sudden, he remembered why he was here. 

He rushed forwards, and pushed past the wrecked seats and the sea of fur and mewling kittens and ginger toms and pure white beauties and mottled tabby cats and black silky snaking cats and little snowballs and grey fluffballs. 

He tried to ignore them all. 

They watched him quietly, mewling every few seconds. They seemed to confer. 

"Look at that fool. Look at him go."

Their glassy little eyes drove him forwards all the faster. 

He'd always been more of a dog person. The cats knew too much, he reckoned. 

Dave reached the pulpit. The grey cat was gone. Nowhere to be seen. 

"Oh." A single utterance came from below him. 

He was standing almost on top of the pile of robes. 

The rags and coats shook and rose and an old, wrinkled face appeared. 

Dave stepped back, dove his hands into his pockets. 

"I was sleeping, oh yes I was." The old gypsy blinked at him, eyes as glassy as the cats around the church. Their hair had mostly fallen away - only a few grey strands hanging down like whiskers. 

Dave swallowed. Any questions or investigations would have to wait. 

"Have you seen my dog? It came through recently, I think. Maybe." Dave tried to meet the stranger's gaze but he broke away. "Sorry for … for disturbing you mate."

The gypsy stared at him, surveyed the church, then shook their head. They wore many layers of makeup. Rose on the cheeks, black under the eyes. But faded, faded almost to grey and brown and pink skin tones again. 

"Haven't seen my cats… no. Haven't seen my cats…" the old gypsy said, wringing their hands. 

"I have seen them, actually!" Dave stood up straighter. "They're very pretty."

"Haven't seen my cats." The old gypsy nodded again and started to lay back down. 

Dave scowled. "But have you seen a dog? I asked you simple enough."

The gypsy raised their eyebrows. "The dogs and cats are meant to reign over us."

Dave turned away. Each deranged word from this old gypsy added kindling to a building fire in his belly. 

"It hasn't reigned cats and dogs for many, many eons. Where is the flood? Where is the flood?"

Dave spun back around. 

"Will you shut up if you don't have anything useful to say! I could call my friends in the police and get this place - whatever it is - shut down!" 

Dave realised his words were echoing around an empty church. Empty except for the pile of rags and the gypsy in front of him. The cats were nowhere to be seen. It was as if this place was mocking him. He suddenly felt the urge to run and leave. He was going insane. 

"Haven't seen my cats? Where is the flood?"

Dave quivered. He pulled out his phone and dialled in the first two numbers.

"I have seen your cats, you silly old gypo. I can get you arrested either way. My mates will trust my testimony more than yours." 

Cat sanctuary or not, living like this was illegal. And the law… 

Dave hesitated. His mind was filled with those headlines again. 

Extended failure to catch multiple killer leads to new suspects

Girl suicide in prison - was she innocent of murder?

Double suicide as sister of Leila Madison also hangs self in jail

Murder verdict overturned by court - 10 years on - the Madison case

He had resigned from the police that morning. With him, he took only Rory, an old retired police dog, and said not a word to his colleagues that day. Or any of the days after. Not that they had tried to call. Rory was his only companion. Castaway souls, together. 

Dave studied the phone in his hand and the gypsy before him. He put the phone away.

In front of him, the gypsy lifted many of the robes, rummaged behind the pulpit, and revealed a silvery, metal reinforced crate. They pushed it across the floor to Dave's feet.

"You can open it, you could, you did, you would," the old gypsy smiled at him. "You can open up a cat."

Dave stared at the box. His nerves danced inside him. With every word the gypsy said, it was hard not to lash out. But they had done nothing wrong. And perhaps they were his only hope of finding Rory. He took a deep breath.

"I'd rather open up a dog," he said. Dave tried to smile and crouched to open the box. If this was some friendship ritual, and they'd finally speak in less than demented riddles - he supposed it was worth it. 

He felt around the edges of the box. It wasn't immediately obvious how to open it at all. It seemed to be impenetrable. Dave sighed. 

"Can you show me how?" He looked away, expecting another strange reply, but to his surprise, the gypsy leant forwards and wrapped their hands on the box. 

They started to whisper, pursing their toothless mouth, running their fingers carefully along the edges of the box. 

A grey cat - the grey cat - crawled out from the side of the box and sat on the gypsy's head, forming a grey, soft hat on top of the red beret beneath.

"Schro Schro! There you are. Some of my cats are always playing games with me."

The old gypsy smiled, and knelt down, as if to sleep. 

Dave reached forward cautiously and picked up the box. There was no visible hole in the side where the cat had got out. 

However, as he continued to spin the box round and round, he heard whimpering from inside. The whimper of a hound.

"Rory?" 

He shook the box, and there came a fierce, angry barking from inside.

"Rory! How did you get stuck in there?"

"Haven't seen your dog yet," the old gypsy said, eyeing Dave.

"I'm not doing that voodoo stuff - if that's what yer-" Dave stopped. He could hear his dog scraping against the sides. 

"I'm not-"

"Rory!" He knelt beside the box and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Rory. Come on. Who's a good boy? Come on dear. Come on darling." 

He petted the box, trying to stroke it with his fingers like the gypsy had done. The church was silent. The gypsy and her grey cat watched: four eyes. 

"Rory. Come on boy."

Silence. 

Then barking.

Then nothing.

"Probably alive. Probably dead." The old gypsy frowned, deep grooves in their face. 

"Cats and dogs can't rain."

Dave was soaked up to his shins. The floor was flooded. It wasn't from him - though he was crying in torrents. "Rory…"

The only thing he'd ever done right on that day. It wasn't enough. He couldn't even save a poor dog, let alone murder victims. Might as well give it all up too. That's what all the letters had told him at the time, wasn't it? 

Pink rage filled his mind. Dave smashed his head against the box. 

With a splintering crash, the boxes fell open, as easy to break as an eggshell.

Inside there lay a black dog. 

Lying there - dead?

No. Rory was breathing. Just asleep.

Dave scooped up his dog, who stayed sound asleep. In his jaws was a plastic bag, neatly captured - a plastic sachet of green herbs.

Dave's heart jumped to his mouth. After everything, and he'd have to arrest them after all? Is that what Rory had been chasing? 

"Catnip," said the old gypsy, with a grin. 

It was as if they could read his mind.