Time for a story--Tricia McGill

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Deep into research and planning for my next book, I realised that time had run away with me before I decided on a topic for my latest post. I hope this short story that I wrote many years ago will suffice. Sadly, it says a lot about the state of some of our children in these times, and the poor conditions thrust upon them. It is called The Kitten.

The demons were at his heels. He was panting when he reached the house. It stood, dark, forbidding. He knew it was empty. For the past two years since the Grimwalds had moved out no one had been brave enough to occupy it, even for a night. 

           He climbed through the hole in the fence that was well known by all the local kids. He had come here once with the Wells Street gang, but had heard they never used it as a meeting place any more. He was an outcast now, belonging to no gang. His mum was always bad-tempered and drunk most of the time; had been since his dad went away. What was it about grown-ups that made them take all their problems and misfortunes out on their kids?

            The house loomed before him, dark windows glaring down like black glass eyes. Did he have the courage to go inside? Well, there was only one way to find out. A gust of wind sent a carton flying about and it caught him on the shins, scaring him, making him shudder. He felt as if he had stepped into a movie he watched once, where a werewolf lived in the cellar of a house just like this one. His teeth chattered and he shivered wildly. What was he doing here? He must have gone mad.

            Mad or desperate? Where else could he go? His mum had a new boyfriend with her—some pathetic creep she'd picked up. Greg, his best friend, had been ordered to keep away from him. Funny ideas some grown-ups had. They could only get together at school now. Of course he could go and hang about near the station, but all the druggies got there. He didn't fancy getting mixed up with that lot; he'd managed to keep out of their way up to now.

            He wasn't welcome with the gang any more, since he'd refused to take part in their shop-lifting caper—to prove his bravery, they'd said. What was brave about nicking a few silly bars of chocolate and some cigs?

            He reached the tree where he knew he could get into the house through the upstairs window, and began to climb. He reached the second limb up when a pitiful sound stopped him in his efforts. "Meow...." it came again.

"Where are you? I can hear you, but I can't see you," he called in a loud whisper, and received another yowl in response. Up another foot he went until he could get a hold of the branch hanging over the balcony. A scruffy ball of fur began to hiss at him as he sat back on the branch, and he saw a small dirty-white kitten further up, its coat all wet, its eyes wide and staring. It hissed again and he chatted to it for a few minutes in what he hoped was a comforting tone. He didn't know much about animals, for he'd never been allowed to keep a pet, but he felt a strange empathy with this little creature. It looked just like he felt. Lonely. Sad. Miserable, and confused.

            "Come down then and you can come inside with me," he called, and to his surprise the kitten obeyed, dropping onto the branch beside him. "Wanna come into the house with me?" he asked, and it began to wipe its wet nose on his hand. It sniffed at him a bit and then jumped onto the top rail of the balcony, making a sound in its throat as if calling to him.

            He tentatively crawled along the branch and followed the kitten as it jumped down. It turned to make sure he followed before disappearing through a gap in the double doors.  He pushed the gap a bit wider and went after it. The room was so gloomy that he couldn't see the kitten, but then felt it smooching about his ankles. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he was able to follow it to the door, which creaked as he pushed it open. The wind whistled mournfully down the passageway. Strangely, he didn't feel so frightened now he had the cat to keep him company. Stealthily they went down the stairs, and then he heard the strange noise. His flesh began to crawl, goose bumps rising on every inch of his body.

            "Who's there?" he whispered, his voice coming out odd and shaky. He'd heard of knocking knees but until that moment hadn't known just what it meant. "Come out, if you know what's good for you," he cried, not having a clue what he would do if a man came out carrying a gun or some other weapon.

            A funny scuffling sound was followed by a dragging noise and if the cat hadn't decided at that moment to smooch round him again he would have fled. His feet felt as if they were glued to the floor. As if in a dream where you couldn't move he watched as the door to what he guessed was the kitchen slowly opened. A scrawny hand appeared around its edge, the fingers bent and twisted, like talons.

            He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a small yowl just like the cat had made. A face, a terrible face, all lined and flabby, with skin hanging in folds beneath each eye followed the hand. The hair surrounding it was like the strings on the filthy mop that his mum kept outside the back door.  He managed a scream then, but before he could turn and run the thing had moved to clamp those long talon-like fingers over his arm. In terror he shrank from the vile smell coming off what he now saw was an old woman.

            "Let go of me," he ordered with as much bravado as he could muster.

            "Not until you keep quiet, silly little dope. What d'you want to do, waken the dead?" she asked, giving an unearthly cackle that made him shudder anew.

            "Are you dead?" he asked croakily as she released him. He thought of running but decided to stay and see what happened. She certainly didn't look like a ghost, and ghosts didn't stink, did they?

            She took out a piece of rag from the pocket of her cardigan and blew her nose noisily. "Not me. Want a bite?" She offered him a piece of bread. "Nice house isn't it?" she asked companionably. "You must have been mighty desperate to come in alone boy. Tell Old Jane your sorry tale and perhaps I'll let you stay."

            She picked up the kitten and stroked its wet fur before sitting down on the floor. He joined her, feeling safe now as he took a bite of the bread.

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