Cat Flap by Andrew Osmond
Chapter Seven: Thursday
“The first photographic evidence of the Surrey Puma was inconclusive. Two photographs taken in 1966 which purported to be of the elusive beast are so blurred that it is impossible to discern whether the image is even of a cat, big or not.”
“The local paper came out yesterday. Let me read you the article.” Art shook the newspaper, folding it back on itself so that the relevant page was facing him. “Here we go.
“Big cat loose in local woods.”
“Not a very snappy title.”
“No, but it gets the message across. There is a picture too.” Art handed the newspaper across to John so that he could see the black and white image.
“That’s a lion,” John complained.
“I know.” Art sounded resigned.
“You’re not seriously suggesting...?”
“No, it must just have been a stock photograph from the newspaper’s archive. You’ve got to admit, it is quite eye-catching, though. And for an editor, that is what matters more than factual accuracy.”
“I guess so. Anyway, read away.” John handed the article back to Art.
“Okay.” He took a sip of his beer to moisten his mouth before continuing. “A gruesome discovery, made on a small farm in the environs of Watford, has sparked concerns that a dangerous wild cat is at large in the neighbourhood. They’ve actually spelt ‘neighbourhood’ wrong,” Art interrupted his own flow, in order to show his companion the offending word.
John was getting impatient; he had begun to read the article for himself as it was held in front of him, “I know all this. Has your friend found out anything new?”
“Nothing much. Here, let me continue.
“Blah, blah, blah. The marks on the body of the dog are consistent with those made by a large carnivorous animal, most likely a puma or a panther. There have been no actual sightings of the mysterious creature, although there have been several reports of strange howling noises at night both in Cassiobury Park and the surrounding Whippendell Woods. There have been no reported escapes of a large animal from any of the local zoos or known collections, but this does not discount the possibility that a breeding population of non-native wild cats has managed to establish itself in this country. Big cat sightings are not uncommon in other parts of Britain... blah, blah. It goes on a bit about the Beast of Bodmin,” Art went on to explain. “Sensationalist newspaper stuff, you know. They’ve even nicknamed the creature the Cassiobury Cougar. That won’t catch on.”
“Is there any mention of you?”
“What?”
“I thought that you said that you might get a credit.”
“No, not a word. Still, Trevor’s not known for keeping his promises. Anyway, I don’t know if I really want to be associated with this type of misreporting.”
“It’s hardly front page stuff, is it,” said John.
“No, tucked away on page seven,” agreed Art, taking his friend’s words literally. “Nevertheless, it will probably get noticed in certain circles.”
“Oh?”
“There is a well-organized network of A.B.C. spotters, for want of a better word.”
“You’ll have to get a move on then, won’t you.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well you don’t want someone else to bag your big cat before you, do you? Not when it is on your own turf, as it were.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Wouldn’t do your reputation much good.”
“What reputation?”
“Well you said yourself, you’ve got to start somewhere. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m guessing that it would actually be fairly big news if you did manage to come up with some evidence to prove that there was something loose in your woods.”
“Yes,” Art sounded unconvinced, anticipating from past experience that John had some angle in mind.
“And the person, whoever it may be, who comes up with this proof, would become something of a minor celebrity. It’s happened before, hasn’t it? Local, perhaps national, news coverage. T.V. appearance even. There’s got to be the possibility of a book deal in this. No?” John continued seeing the puzzled expression on Art’s face, “All I’m saying is that if you genuinely think there is something to be found, make sure that you are the one that does it, because if you don’t it sounds as though there will be plenty of other opportunists out there racking up to beat you to it.”
“It would certainly do my standing no harm in the world of cryptozoology,” Art was forced to agree. “It’s just finding the time. What with work, Luke...”
John interrupted him, “Make time. If it’s important to you.”
Art was looking at his friend slightly mystified, “What’s got you so interested in this, all of a sudden? I didn’t think you even believed in all this... What did you call it?”
“Crypto-nonsense.” John added, helpfully.
“So?” Art began to smile slowly; the penny beginning to drop. “You’re already counting pound notes, aren’t you? You have a one-track mind.”
“Well, two-track actually,” John corrected, his head turning as an attractive barmaid lent over him to relieve him of his empty glass and wipe down their table. He acknowledged her with a cheery “Thank you” before continuing, “Of course, I’m talking money, my friend. You find this cat and it must be worth a few bob to you. Surely you’d considered that?”
“Not really.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No, really. Not everyone thinks like you, mate. All the same...” Now that he considered the financial implications of being a person that discovered a British Alien Big Cat, it was hard for Art not to find the idea attractive. The things he could do. The possibilities it would open up. John brought him back from his daydream.
“We could all do with more money, couldn’t we?”
“Well, I certainly could,” Art agreed, “but you must be loaded already. How much did you earn last year?”
“Not enough,” said John, suddenly serious.
Art noticed the change of tone in his friend’s voice, “Oh? I thought that you were supposed to be the original fat cat.”
“You’d be surprised,” John began to explain, “I’m actually not in too good shape at the moment. It’s a passing phase, you know. Things will pick up again. Just a few too many bills all coming in at the same time.”
“But you must have savings?”
“What makes you think that?”
“But you’ve always been so flush. You’re always buying new stuff. And the big house...”
“Exactly. None of it comes cheap. Jessica doesn’t know anything about this, but actually we’ve rather over-stretched ourselves. I was relying on getting a decent bonus at Christmas. The firm has been very generous in the past.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard. I’ve read about those City bonuses.”
“That’s just it, I’m not in the City anymore. The culture’s different up on Euston Road. The shareholders have been complaining too. I wouldn’t be surprised if the C.E.O. is preparing the company for a take-over. It’s happened before.”
“So how bad is it?”
John scratched his neck, “Pretty bad.”
Art was thinking about the cheque he had just received from his wife. It wasn’t much; certainly wasn’t the sort of sum that he was sure that John was talking about - when John spoke of money he talked in tens of thousands, millions sometimes; when Art spoke of money it was generally to count the change he had in his pocket. “If you need...” he was hesitant even to mention the subject, not wanting to embarrass his friend with an awkward gesture, “I mean... I haven’t got much, but if it’s just something to tied you over...”
John put his hands up to halt his friend, “No. Hell. Thanks, but no. I didn’t mean you to think I was asking...”
“No, of course not. I didn’t. It’s just, you know, if there is anything I can do.”
“Thanks. We’ll get by. I’ll just have to put dreams of purchasing that forty foot catamaran in the Med. on hold for the time being.” he joked. “As I say, it’s just a passing thing.”
The two fell silent momentarily. Art drained the remainder of his drink before saying, “Good beer here.”
“Yes, good beer.”