Warchild (part 2 of 2)

This is part 2 of this story, read part 1 here

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For the following two days his mum does not go to work. She tells Keavie she is staying home to home-school, lessons whose only timetable entry are a re-reading of Watership Down, with all the bad parts skipped and with no questions to answer afterwards. For Keavie these are perfect days. Warchild has not returned, allowing him two full nights' sleep in a row. No one even speaks the word cat. No one appears upset about anything, until Marnie asks dad if he owned a book called something like The Magers, and dad starts to cry. But it appears to be happy crying, and rather than mock dad for it Marnie says nothing and disappears upstairs.

On the third night Keavie dreams he stands at the front of his old Year 7 classroom, whilst a bear covers his mouth with an enormous furry paw, to prevent him answering the teacher's question. He wakes, gasping for air, to find Alcazar sleeping on his face.

'And who exactly is this?' says Alcazar.

Keavie pushes her off his head and onto the pillow. He looks at the clock, which reads 03:17.

'I thought you moved out,' says Keavie.

'The house was fine, thank you very much, until that bastard dog turned up. More importantly – why is he here?' Alcazar waves a paw at Warchild, stretched in an arc on the floor.

'Shit-talk me whilst I'm in the room, why don't you?' says Warchild.

'You can talk?' says Alcazar.

'And insult my intelligence. Pleased to meet you too.'

'My apologies. I've just never met another cat who talked before.'

'That's the problem with you young cats – the lack of worldly experience.'

'Hark at the old timer.'

'Let's say I'm not of a generation that expects grain-free fucking biscuits as default.'

'Just – be quiet a second,' whispers Keavie. 'You'll wake everyone.'

Alcazar and Warchild look at Keavie. Warchild yawns and sits up on the carpet.

'You can't both stay here,' says Keavie. 'Mum and Dad don't know there's two cats.'

'What, cast me out into the wilderness again?' says Alcazar.

'But you never liked it here. You pissed and shat everywhere.'

'Language,' says Warchild.

'Like that means anything,' says Alcazar. 'If anyone's leaving it'll be Martin Guerre here looking for a new abode.'

'I'm just following orders from our spymaster.' Warchild tips an ear in Keavie's direction.

'I didn't ask you to live here,' says Keavie.

'Though you told me to stay. I've been sashaying round the house under your instruction ever since. I'm all but institutionalised.' Warchild slips his head under the duvet, burrows himself up and out onto the pillow. 'We'll take it in shifts,' he says, and lays a paw on top of Alcazar's. 'One of us has the run of the place whilst the other sleeps in a box under the bed. No one will know there's more than one of us.'

'Please don't sleep under the bed,' says Keavie. 'I don't really like – the smell.'

'Don't like smells?' says Warchild. 'Jesus. You haven't lived.'

*

'We just think you look exhausted, sweetie,' says Lana.

'Not tired,' says Keavie. 'Just hungry.'

'We know what's keeping us all awake,' cries Vincent. 'The cat is keeping us all awake. The cat which has taken up nocturnal parkour. At the same time as you seem to have given up work.'

'It's not the cat,' says Lana. 'Don't blame Alcazar.'

'Then why are we having breakfast at four-thirty in the morning?' says Vincent.

'I was hungry,' says Keavie. 'Why are you here?'

Through the kitchen window Keavie sees Mrs Filipowski duck low behind a bush in the garden. He contemplates the cat-death possibilities if Mrs Filipowski encounters Warchild during one of her garden visits. He doesn't want that, not even for Warchild. Besides, Mrs Filipowski is ancient – it isn't obvious she would emerge victorious. He doesn't want Mrs Filipowski dead, either.

'Sweetie, we think you ought to talk to someone again,' says Lana. 'Someone like Julie. You liked Julie, didn't you?'

'Not really. And I'm already talking to you,' says Keavie.

'Good. That's good.' Lana turns to stare out of the window and wipes her hand across her eyes. Keavie checks for movement from Mrs Filipowski, but she is well camouflaged.

'Now you've stopped talking,' says Keavie.

'Is there anything you want to tell us? Or ask us? Is there some reason you don't want to leave the house any more?'

'Do you think Mrs Filipowski is very strong? Is she so old she'd collapse from a single blow?'

'What have you got against Mrs Filipowski?' says Vincent.

'Who do you talk to in the middle of the night, sweetie?' Lana grips his wrist, a strength beyond affection, and therefore manageable.

'Not Mrs Filipowski, that's for sure,' says Keavie.

'That! Didn't you hear that?' Vincent holds up a hand. ' "I'm more a fan of salmon", as clear as day. You must have heard that? "I'm more a fan of salmon".'

'That was me,' Keavie moves a hand over his mouth.

'But you didn't say anything,' says Lana.

'I'm taking ventriloquism as an outside option.'

'Dad knows someone you could talk to. A man called Teague. Will you talk to Teague?'

'I thought Teague hypnotised Dad so he could sleep through traffic noise?'

'Teague is no longer an option.' Vincent hurls oats from a kilner jar into a saucepan, almost to the brim. 'He's relocated to Spain for the winter, to run corporate retreats or something. Who wants porridge since we're here?'

Alcazar pads into the kitchen, gives Keavie a dirty look and examines her food bowl without eating.

'Lovely Alcazar,' says Lana. Keavie takes a quick lungful of air as Lana pulls Alcazar onto her lap.

'Can we just agree that cat is not Alcazar?' says Vincent.

Keavie sits motionless, eyes ahead, the longer to hold his breath.

'Of course this is Alcazar!' cries Lana.

Using telepathy Keavie implores Alcazar to stay quiet. Vincent grabs the cat from Lana, holds her above his head. 'Alcazar doesn't have a blond – '

'You mean like this cat here?' says Lana.

Alcazar gives Keavie a look as if to say, deal with this madman why don't you? Vincent drops her to the floor and slumps into a chair.

'For three nights,' says Vincent, almost inaudibly, 'I've been woken by a cat, perhaps not this cat, sat on my chest staring at me.'

'Dad, I think the pan is boiling over,' says Keavie.

Vincent stabs a finger at Alcazar. 'Look,' he cries. 'She's trying to bewitch me!'

'Sleep,' says Alcazar, and taps the stone floor with a claw.

Vincent sleeps.

*

'I need to get some sleep,' says Keavie.

'We have a deal,' says Warchild. 'You play Scrabble and I won't sit on “Dad" any more. Though his face is such a picture every time he wakes.'

'Can't we play Scrabble in the day time? Now Dad has abandoned home-schooling I'm more of a free agent.'

'Except I'm on the night shift.'

'But you can't even read.'

'Hence the Scrabble, in order to learn.' Warchild pushes three tiles on to the board with his paw. 'Tawn. T-A-W-N. Double word score.'

'Tawn isn't a word.' Keavie lies his head on the edge of the duvet that hangs down the side of his bed.

'I've got responsibilities now. What are my kittens going to think of me if I'm illiterate?'

'Kittens?'

'Oops. Me and my big mouth. Alcs says don't tell anyone until twenty days in. But I'm actually kind of excited. Never thought it'd be me, the whole kids thing.'

'Alcazar's pregnant?'

'I suppose I'm older now. Want to do the settled thing. So – you'll need to think about sorting us a bigger place. Somewhere for a proper family.'

'My parents can't afford a bigger house.'

'Maybe I should talk to "Dad". Man to man.' Warchild pushes more tiles onto the Scrabble board. There. JOKNAP.'

'Don't talk to Dad.'

'I don't want to talk to him. Not when he keeps grabbing me and sniffing my neck, the weirdo.'

'When are Alcazar's kittens coming?'

'Beats me,' says Warchild. 'You can tell these things?'

*

'I've changed my mind.' Keavie stands at the foot of his parents' bed. 'I want to talk to Teague.'

'What time is it?' Vincent says into his pillow.

Lana sits up. 'You're dressed,' she says to Keavie.

'Seven o'clock,' says Vincent. 'A miracle.'

Keavie hears a chorus of quiet mewling from his bedroom next door. He hums the alien call sign from Close Encounters of the Third Kind on a loop, as cover.

'That's great you want to speak to Teague, Keavie,' Vincent turns on his side, shaded his eyes with a hand. 'But Teague is in Spain right now.'

Lana grasps Vincent's arm, pulling him back.

'How about we talk to him online?' says Lana. 'Dad could set up a Zoom call, right now.'

'That's not how hypnotism works,' says Keavie. 'It's a face-to-face thing. It's fine. I'm already packed.'

'We're so glad you want to leave the house. Aren't we?' Lana releases Vincent's arm, in order to lay a restraining hand on his chest.

'I've got the keys.' Keavie waggles them over Vincent's head. He hears a scampering sound next door, perhaps the kittens organising relays, bed to floor to chair and back. 'I'll start loading my things into the van.'

*

'We can't go to Spain!' Vincent, in t-shirt and boxers, prostrates himself across the front door. Keavie drags a holdall down the stairs, followed by Lana with a rucksack. 'How can we go to Spain?'

'For Keavie.' Lana lifts a basket of clean washing out of Keavie's path to the kitchen, then empties its contents into the rucksack.

'Spain?' Marnie appears at the top of the stairs in school uniform. 'I like the sound of Spain.'

'You have GCSEs coming up!' says Vincent.

'I'll home-school too.'

'You go to school-school!'

'It's a chance to practice my Spanish,' Marnie removes her school jumper back over her head. 'Give me ten minutes to pack.'

'You're not even taking Spanish,' Vincent calls after her.

Marnie turns back. 'So school's the only place we learn anything, is it?' She disappears into her room.

'Lana,' says Vincent.

'Keavie wants to leave the house,' says Lana. 'So why don't you put some clothes on?'

Warchild follows Keavie into the kitchen.

'You says it was your turn to sleep,' whispers Keavie.

'I'm not sure I'll ever sleep again.' Warchild lies on his side, spreads his furry belly over the stone tiles. 'Jesus. They're so demanding.'

'Just keep them hidden for a couple more hours.'

'Feed me,' says Warchild. 'I need treats.'

'I have to pack.'

'I can barely lift my head to eat. Shall I ask Dad?'

Keavie grabs Warchild in his arms, returns to the hallway.

'Is Alcazar coming then, sweetie?' says Lana.

'You can't take a cat to Spain!' says Vincent. 'Besides everything else there's quarantine laws!'

Lana pulls Vincent away from the front door. 'Who’ll know about a cat?'

'If I'm living in Spain, I don’t want a bad start through trouble with the police,' says Keavie.

'There. The cat's not coming,' says Vincent.

'Customs aren't going to let you through dressed like that, Dad,' says Keavie. 'Have you considered a shirt and tie?'

*

'You can't just quit your job.' Vincent leans through the passenger window of the van.

'I believe I just did.' Lana sits in the driver's seat, her phone in her lap.

'Did you have to swear at Jacob quite that much?'

'In essence that was four years of irritation summarised into two concise sentences.'

'We need to go to Spain now!' cries Keavie from the back seat.

Different coloured holdalls, rucksacks and bursting carrier bags entirely obscure the van floor. A basketball balances on the summit. Marnie clicks her seatbelt into place.

'Get in,' Lana starts the engine.

'And leave the house just like that?'

'I've locked the doors. Mrs Filipowski is going to feed the cat.'

'What, both of them? And what about my work?' Vincent opens the door and climbs in. 'Who will support us all?'

'I can work,' says Marnie. 'As the family member who speaks the language.'

'That's the beauty of TEFL, or so you first said to me under that M25 bridge way back when,' Lana slams the van into gear and swerved out from the kerb. 'No ties, fancy-free, live anywhere at a moment's notice.'

Keavie turns in his seat to watch the house recede behind them through binoculars. Up in his bedroom window he sees Warchild hold up a pen as though to give him the finger.

'Sometimes a change of scene is just what's needed, sweetie,' Lana watches Keavie in the rearview mirror. 'You'll see.'

'Yet does it have to be Spain we go to?' says Vincent.

'We need to go, right now.' Keavie moves the binoculars for a view of the landing window, where three kittens cling to a rope fashioned from a bedsheet knotted to a scarf. One kitten flicks the window catch whilst another jumps for the opening, slipping off the windowsill on first attempt. The third brandishes a gun.

'Are you worried about Alcazar?' says Lana.

'Not at all,' says Keavie.

'Mrs Filipowski will feed her. She loves cats.'

'Mrs Filipowski is a cat killer.'

'She's all mouth,' says Marnie. 'She'd never go through with it.'

The van turned the corner.

'What will we do for money?' says Vincent.

'We'll live cheap.' Lana looks back at Marnie, deep in her headphones, Keavie with the binoculars on his lap. 'Here we are, on your beloved family road trip.'

*

They are one of only three encampments. The campsite is a loosely marked-out field, with undulating grass mounds, ringed by miles of grid-lined pine forest. Clusters of wild ponies occasionally appear at the tree line. Lana parks as far as possible from the other campers.

At Portsmouth harbour, despite Vincent's protests the customs officer refuses them entry onto the ferry, since Keavie's passport is six months out of date. As Lana makes a complicated U-turn out of the car queue, Keavie announces he is not so worried about talking with Teague any more. They drive west to the New Forest, leave the road at a sign for the first campsite. There is no discussion of their destination, nor schedule for the future.

They settle into a routine: fetching food supplies, cooking, and sleeping for upwards of ten hours a night. There is no WiFi, or even a phone signal, but after Marnie's initial query on the first day, no further mention is made. In the chilly evenings they play cards at the fold-out van table, where the majority of a game is often spent inventing their own rules. It falls to Vincent to circle the van for a third time, barking like a dog, under Keavie's new rule concerning red Queen on black. As Vincent climbs back into the van door he gives an extra loud wolf howl in the direction of the other campers.

At the weekend more people arrive, and Vincent takes a walk to the main road in order to find a phone signal.

'Mrs Filipowski was a little hysterical,' says Vincent, on his return to camp. Keavie, Marnie and Lana sit on tree trunk cylinders around a smouldering fire.

'But still alive?' says Keavie.

'Although – she's pretty certain Alcazar has gone for good this time.' Vincent crouches down by Keavie. 'How would that be, if Alcazar was gone, Keavie?'

Keavie strokes the stick that lay across his lap. 'I don't think Alcazar was very happy at home,' he says. 'If she's gone to live with proper cat people it's maybe for the best.'

'Also, we've been burgled,' Vincent says mildly. 'The house is quite a mess. Graffiti all over the back door.'

'Your old students, perhaps?' says Marnie.

'That would explain why they can't spell "bastard". Though not why they scratched it around the cat flap.'

'I blame austerity,' says Keavie, poking the smouldering camp fire with his stick. 'I suppose this means we need to go back. For the clean up operation.'

'If you want to go back, then we can,' says Lana.

'There's not much learning to be done here,' says Keavie.

'These ponies don't have much conversational Spanish,' says Marnie.

Lana moves their blackened kettle closer to the fire's embers. No one speaks for some time.

'We can build a shrine to her once we're back,' says Keavie.

'To Mrs Filipowski?' says Marnie.

'To Alcazar.'

'There's a patch down the end of the garden we'll use,' says Lana.

'I'm thinking of a dance ritual to inaugurate the shrine. Dad, I've got you down for a principal role.'

'I'd be honoured,' says Vincent.

They sit in silence around the fire, and wait for the kettle to boil.

END

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(License-free) photo by Jae Park on Unsplash