Warchild (part 1 of 2)

It is almost dawn, the garden a low orange from the weak spring sun. Keavie tiptoes over the piles of wet leaves smeared across the paving slabs, the cat struggling in his arms.

'In other countries,' says Keavie. 'cats aren't so pampered. In other countries you'd be fighting dogs by now.'

Alcazar sinks her claws deep into Keavie's chest, both for better purchase and to inform him: I was asleep, I don't have wings, you don't have the first clue concerning my future ambitions.

Keavie pushes Alcazar high up the stone wall at the garden's end, his hands under her belly, balances her on the rounded lip of the summit. The cat scrabbles at the stone, raking dust into his eyes. Clean pyjamas so Mum not notice, he inscribes on his Current list in the sidebar of his mind.

A rustling noise startles him, behind the fence to his left. A silhouetted samurai, a night demon, pushes their face against the slats.

'I see you,' says the demon.

'Take her,' says Keavie. 'Take my cat as servile payment.'

'I hate cats. Do your parents know you're out here?' It is Mrs Filipowski, the next-door neighbour.

'It's best you don't mention it,' says Keavie. 'Mum and Dad are already a little on edge. About school. I've quit,' he explains. 'Though Mr Roundhead, that's my headmaster, might spin it differently, were you to ask.'

Up on the wall, Alcazar arches her back, then launches herself at Keavie. He catches her, her weight forcing him to stagger backwards like a drunken goalkeeper.

'I've already asked her to leave, but she took no notice,' says Keavie.

'Is she a Polish cat?' says Mrs Filipowski. 'My old cat Nero only understood Polish.'

'I don't think that's the most likely explanation.'

'All right, clever sticks.'

The reversal of his affections for Alcazar have bewildered Keavie. Three years earlier, to emphasise his desire for a pet cat, Keavie communicated solely through the medium of meows for forty-eight hours, never once slipping character despite his dad's increasingly earnest threats. He doted on Alcazar the kitten, but Alcazar the cat produced an intolerable household aroma. At night Keavie barricades his bedroom, but Alcazar gains entry by means of stolen wool to hook down the handle, or a shimmy under the door to tease out the shelf blocking entry from the inside.

'Though it's possible,' says Mrs Filipowski, 'that Nero was just pretending not to understand. Whichever. He had to go.'

'Where is he now?' The moon shines brighter for a moment, which illuminates Mrs Filipowski's eyes. Keavie takes a step back.

'Dead, obviously,' says Mrs Filipowski. 'This was 1972.'

'I don't want Alcazar dead.' Keavie strokes the cat's head.

'You are sure?'

Keavie covers Alcazar's ears. 'There's an empty house in Hampton Road. I'm going to take her to live there. I'll take her food.'

'Suit yourself,' says Mrs Filipowski. 'One less cat in my garden, good with me.'

Keavie hugs Alcazar closer to his chest.

'You'll get out the back more easily this way.' Mrs Filipowski pushes open a section of the dividing fence, which swings on hinges towards Keavie.

'Do Mum and Dad know about that?'

'It's only so I can tidy your garden. Climbing the fence was getting too much.'

'It's not my garden. I don't pay the mortgage. Mum does the garden.' They look at the rotten decking, the half-built insect house, the pile of weeds with more weeds encircling it. 'Mum works all the time,' says Keavie.

'I only come at night. We'll make it our secret,' says Mrs Filipowski.

'We're onto secrets already? I hardly know you.'

'I've watched you get older since you moved in.'

'That's quite creepy.'

'I apologise,' says Mrs Filipowski. 'Are you coming through or not?'

*

'I learnt this on YouTube,' says Keavie. 'They use it in China to teach children maths. And computational thinking. And look at their academic results. Here.'

Keavie hands his dad a print out.

'But with cat food?' says Vincent. Red, green and brown dried pellets cover the kitchen table, arranged in piles of ten.

'I bet their economics scores are through the roof,' says Keavie.

'But we've done this lesson, Keavie,' says Vincent. 'We've done it every day this week.'

'It's my learning preference. Like you says to Mr Roundhead, the problem with school is that it isn't child-led.' Keavie sweeps the cat food into a bag. 'You buy more cat food this afternoon, and I'll add the figures to my spreadsheet. Today I'm doing pie charts. They're on the Year 7 syllabus.'

Vincent leans across the table, and Keavie leans back. 'But Keavie,' says Vincent, 'why buy cat food when Alcazar is – no longer around?'

'For maths. And food tech.' Keavie jigs in a circle round the kitchen and back to his chair. 'And we need to leave food out for her in case she comes back. It's obvious, she is coming back. Just not when we're here. She probably doesn't like us watching her eat. I don't like you watching me eat.'

For two weeks Keavie has taken food to Hampton Road after morning lessons, using the pretence of runs round the block for PE, later upgraded to army training, as cover for the cat-food-filled rucksack, yomping down the front steps singing, 'I don't know but I've been told'. When a family suddenly move into the empty house he is forced to return at night, and use his pump-action rocket launcher to propel food through the tunnel of the cat flap. He is reassured Alcazar is not going hungry by a pre-launch torch examination through the flap, which indicates the disappearance of the previous night's food.

'I know how much you love Alcazar,' says Vincent.

'How could you know how much I love anything?' says Keavie.

'We all loved Alcazar.' Lana enters and sat at the table.

'You says loved. Is Alcazar dead?' Keavie has never wished Alcazar dead, would never desire the death of an animal. But if she has died of natural causes, not his fault, out of his control, then well. 'Is there something you're not telling me?'

'I meant love her.' Lana nudges Keavie's hand with a piece of toast, their accepted form of physical contact. 'Are you – is it that you like eating Alcazar's food, sweetie? Is that where it's all going?'

'What? No. That's so disgusting.'

Keavie watches his mum's face redden, her eyes grow watery.

'I'm sad Alcazar ran away,' says Lana.

'You always complained she pissed and vomited everywhere.'

'I never minded.' Lana turns to the sink.

'And I never meant those things I says,' says Vincent.

'I love Alcazar,' says Lana. 'I'd do anything to get her back.'

'Would you see a priest?' says Keavie.

'Would you like me to see a priest?'

'I just wondered how far you'd go.'

'I'd see a priest.'

*

'Look who's back,' says Keavie, as his parents come downstairs. 'Alcazar!'

Keavie eyes the cat sat upright on the kitchen table, her tail coiled round a jar of marmalade. She is the image of Alcazar, but an image from an alternate, evil dimension.

'Alcazar!' Vincent encloses the cat in his arms.

'You must be so pleased, sweetie,' Lana touches Keavie's shoulder with one finger. Keavie takes this contact as a slow-acting spell, protection from this cat's undoubted malicious intent.

'Poor Alcazar,' coos Lana, 'where have you been all this time?' She moves to embrace the cat, which hisses, extendes the claws of her left paw and jumps to the floor.

'She's upset,' says Keavie. 'Probably has PTSD from fighting in enemy territory. I reckon she won't be herself for a while.'

'Now you won't have to stay awake all night, waiting for her,' says Lana. 'Will you?'

'Alcazar's back,' Keavie says to Marnie, as she enters in her school uniform.

'Since when did Alcazar have a big blond patch down her front?' says Marnie, taking a carton of milk from the fridge.

'It's definitely Alcazar,' says Keavie. 'She just got fatter eating away from home, I reckon.'

'I had an accident,' says Vincent. 'I spilt bleach on Alcazar's fur. Sorry. I didn't want to worry anyone.' Vincent pulls a bottle of bleach from the cupboard under the sink.

'Why were you bleaching the cat?' says Marnie.

'I wasn't trying to,' says Vincent.

'You can poison cats with bleach.'

'I'm sorry.' Vincent waves the bleach bottle in apology.

'Maybe put the bleach away,' says Lana.

*

At lunchtime Keavie watches through the kitchen window as Marnie drops over the wall into their garden, as she does each afternoon once Vincent has left for work. The cat lies sprawled on top of the fridge, scratching a hole in a cereal packet.

'You know this cat isn't Alcazar, don't you?' says Marnie, coming in the back door.

'I'm pretending I didn't hear that,' says Keavie. 'Mum and Dad think she's Alcazar, so this is Alcazar. I never knew how much they loved her. Mum was crying, she was so happy.'

They watch the cat pad towards the windowsill, and with the swipe of a paw snap the end of the plastic blind.

'She appeared one night in the garden, and forced her way in,' says Keavie. 'Now she won't leave.'

'Why were you in the garden at night?' says Marnie.

'Taking food to the real Alcazar. She wanted to go live in that empty house on Hampton Road. She told me.'

Marnie empties the contents of her untouched lunch box into the bin. 'Keavie, you know you can't just banish a family member when you don't get on with them?'

'What about grandad?'

'That's different. Grandad is deliberately unpleasant. And you shouldn't be out at night.'

'I carry a siren. And you should be at school.'

'Says the home-school kid.'

'Check the wording: home and school.'

'I'm self-taught,' says Marnie.

*

'I know you're not Alcazar,' says Keavie. 'You might fool mum and dad, but not me.'

The cat says nothing and stretched along his bedroom windowsill. Keavie kneels up in bed and sniffs her. He could, at least, imagine sleeping with this cat's mild odour.

'Are you evil?' says Keavie. 'Is that why you ripped all the stuffing from my mattress?'

The cat shrugs.

'I've seen underneath the bed, you know,' says Keavie. 'I'm not stupid.'

Keavie lowers the blind with the cat on the other side, climbs back under the covers and falls instantly asleep. The next moment it is 03:02. The cat sits upright on the window sill, staring at him.

'But I closed the blind,' whispers Keavie.

'Not exactly difficult to open, is it?' says the cat. 'You just hook a claw over the cord tassel. The arrogance of opposable thumbs.'

'I need the blind down to sleep.'

'Fair do's. Lower it again, then. I can't reach.'

Keavie watchs the cat examine her paws as he pulls down the blind. 'If you're living here,' he says, 'we need to establish a few rules. First off, I'd prefer if you didn't sleep in my room.'

'Fine.'

'Second, you need to pretend your name is Alcazar.'

'You've got to be joking,' says the cat. 'What kind of name is that?'

'What did your other owners call you?'

'Generally, fucking creature. At least, before the small noisy one decided my fur was some kind of snuff. You seem much nicer.' The cat scrapes a claw along the bedside table. 'You can call me Warchild.'

'Is that a cat name? Anyway, I need to call you Alcazar. Are you – a girl cat?'

'Take a gander at these.' Warchild lifts a leg.

'You need to pretend.'

'What exactly does that entail?'

'I'm not sure.'

'If you're thinking of putting some random kitten on my nipples, think again.' Warchild bounds down the bed, scuffles the folded hoodie on the end into a ball, and settles himself on top. 'However, I'm open to a deal. I'll sleep elsewhere and answer to Alcazar if you get me some better food. I can scarcely keep that muck down.'

'It's not up to me. My parents buy it.'

'The big people?'

'Dad won't buy the expensive cat food. He doesn't believe in it.'

'Dad?' says Warchild. 'And you thought my name was weird.'

*

At the side door of the house opposite the bus stop, Keavie lifts the cat flap with a twig and pulls it back towards the outside. His bare feet are white against the wet pavement – he has forgotten to wear shoes with his pyjamas.

'Have you done this before?' says Warchild. 'Quite the professional.'

'I saw it on the internet,' says Keavie.

'The what?'

'You could get in any house you like, this way.'

'Sweet. Let me have a go.' Warchild hooks a claw behind the flap.

'And cats don't have to live indoors. You could just come back and eat with us in the day time.'

'I'm not sleeping out under a car, if that's what you're thinking. Not like the bad old days.'

'In the twentieth century?'

'I meant metaphorically,' Warchild climbs through the U-shaped hole.

'Meta what?'

But Warchild is gone, the flap clicking back to the vertical.

Back home Keavie sits on the edge of the bath, his pyjama trousers pulled up round his knees. He runs the shower head over his feet to wash off the dirt.

'Keavie,' says Lana, from outside the bathroom door. 'What are you doing?'

'Washing my feet.' Keavie pushes the lever from shower to tap flow, and water thunders into the bath.

'It's five-thirty in the morning. We talked about appropriate times to be awake.'

'My feet were itchy.' He flow-charts the implications of this explanation: itchy feet, doctor, cream, new socks – nothing he can't handle.

'My feet itch at night as well, sometimes.' His mum's voice is lower, in volume and also closer to the floor, as though she is sat or maybe lying down. 'I find it helps to think about something else.'

'But won't that something else keep me awake?'

'Or try to think about nothing?'

'Can you do that?'

'No,' whispers Lana.

*

Read part 2 here

(License-free) photo by Jae Park on Unsplash