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Country Cat Blues, page 1
COUNTRY CAT BLUES
CAT NOIR # 2
ALISON O’LEARY
Published by RED DOG PRESS 2020
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Distributed by BLOODHOUND BOOKS 2022
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Copyright © Alison O’Leary 2020
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Alison O’Leary has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
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This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
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Paperback ISBN 978-1-913331-91-7
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Ebook ISBN 978-1-913331-92-4
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www.reddogpress.co.uk
CONTENTS
Love best-selling fiction?
Also by Alison O’Leary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
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ALSO BY ALISON O’LEARY
Street Cat Blues (Cat Noir # 1)
Beach Cat Blues (Cat Noir # 3)
Summer Cat Blues (Cat Noir # 4)
Christmas Cat Blues (Cat Noir # 5)
1
The sweat dripped into her eyes as she pushed the hair back from her face. The small blue ribbon that he had tied into her hair so carefully earlier that day unravelled and trailed across her neck. She swiped it away and looked up at him. He stared back as the blood ran down the inside of his arm. He dropped the knife to the floor. But there was something wrong. It was pink. The ribbon was a pale satiny pink. She only had one ribbon, it was the one that he had bought for her and it was blue. And he was smiling. But he hadn’t been smiling. Neither of them had. She clutched her fists upwards and began clawing for air as she struggled her way back to consciousness.
In the kitchen the first faint streaks of dawn threw a promise of light through the uncurtained window. On the draining board the smeared wine glass which she had used to empty the best part of a bottle of wine the night before stood unwashed. She filled the glass with cold water and gulped it down before reaching across and picking up her tablet from where she’d dropped it earlier. The image showed local village residents celebrating the re-opening of a steam railway line in some place called Fallowfield. The picture was slightly blurred but it was him. She was sure of it. She pinched the screen to enlarge the picture. For nearly twenty years he had never been very far from the front of her mind, and now by complete chance, when she had been randomly searching for something else, his image had appeared. It felt weird, beyond weird, to be actually seeing him. She’d imagined it for so long, pictured every line and every contour of his face, rehearsed everything that she was going to say to him, and now here he was. Before her very eyes. She peered down at the screen. The hair showed threads of grey now and there was less of it, and he had a few folds of fat tucked under his chin that hadn’t been there before, but it was him. She would know him anywhere.
A slick of nausea trickled across the back of her throat and she choked it back down. For a moment she held herself perfectly still, swallowing hard against the urge to vomit. Pushing the tablet away she stood up, her dressing gown flapping open. Reaching out for the back of the kitchen chair to steady herself, she pulled the robe more tightly around her and grabbed her stick. She didn’t need it so much now, in fact she didn’t really need it at all, but she had got used to it. She liked the feel of it. It was, literally, something to hold on to. And when she’d been in prison it had come in very handy.
“Honestly Moll, it could be a real opportunity. If things work out, it might be my route out of Sir Frank’s. And they’re only running the scheme as a pilot. It might not happen again. It’s a good school, great Ofsted reports. And the house is in a really nice village,” he added.
“What’s it called?”
“Fallowfield.”
From the other side of the room where he was squashed up beneath the radiator, Aubrey watched Molly’s expression. Whatever it was they were talking about, it was sufficiently serious for them to be sitting down and facing each other across the kitchen table. Difficult to tell whether that was good or bad though. Could go either way. He rested his chin on his paws and listened harder.
“Fallowfield? Why does that ring a bell? I’m sure I’ve heard of it in some context or another.”
Aubrey watched as Jeremy hesitated before responding, his index finger tapping lightly on the surface of the table. When he spoke, his tone was flat.
“There was an unsolved murder there about fifteen years ago.”
“Not that nice, then.” Molly thought for a moment. “Wasn’t it a teenage girl? I seem to remember reading about it at the time. It was in all the papers.”
“Moll, it was years ago.”
Molly remained silent. Jeremy continued.
“According to the websites it’s a very desirable place. There’s been lots of development. In a good way,” he added hastily. “Easy commuting, good facilities, all that. And it’s got a village pub.”
Molly smiled.
“Well, that clinches it then.” She paused for a moment. “I’m not saying that you shouldn’t accept. It’s just... well... it’s a big step. And there’s my job to think about as well.”
She stood up and walked over to the window, staring at the light rain pattering against the panes.
“Molly, it’s only an exchange. It’s not permanent. Just for a year. An academic year, so not even a whole year. We’ll be back before the end of next July. And you’ve said yourself you fancy a change from Donaghue’s. You could see it as a kind of gap year, a sort of breathing space to think about what you want to do next.”
Molly turned back to face him.
“I guess so. But we need to think about Carlos, too. He’s starting his final GCSE year in September. He’s had enough disruption as it is, he doesn’t need any more.”
Jeremy picked up his empty wine glass and twirled it round by the stem before speaking.
“True, but you know as well as I do, at Sir Frank’s he’s always going to be known as the kid whose mother got killed. He could do with a fresh start, too.”
Molly nodded slowly and bit her bottom lip. Although they rarely actually mentioned her name, the image of Maria seemed to suddenly spring between them, filling the space and almost as vivid in death as in life. Aubrey tucked his tail more tightly around him and drew into himself. Once encountered, never forgotten. Cat-hating Maria, with her fat little legs bulging out over her cheap sparkly flip flops, her sharp dark eyes that had the unfailing ability to winkle out a cat in a place he ought not to be, and her big mouth that could induce sonic shock even at a whisper; every inch of her had seemed to pulsate defiance and belligerence. And much good it had done her. Born in the back streets of Sao Paulo to an underage mother and a witless father, and then found strangled in her own home before the age of forty, her life had ended as it had begun. Ignominiously.
For a moment both Jeremy and Molly remained silent. Although it had been over a year since the dreadful discovery of Maria’s lifeless body flung across her bed, the memory of that terrible time and all that followed in the immediate aftermath was never far away. Molly spoke first.
“We'd have to get approval to take him. We're only his foster parents; we don't really have any rights. What will we do if they say no?”
As if on cue, the low, insistent throb of Carlos’s music began to pulsate through the ceiling. Jeremy reached across the table and re-filled his wine glass.
“Well, I don't think that Zanna is going to object. She's got a case load longer than both your arms and she’s off sick half the time. She'll probably be de lighted to lose him. She's only visited once and even then she could barely remember his name without looking at her notes. Don’t you remember? She kept calling him Christopher.”
Molly nodded and then glanced across the room. "There’s Aubrey to think about too, don’t forget."
Aubrey sat up abruptly and hit his head against the bottom of the radiator. What? Why did they have to think about him?
“It’s fine. We can take a small pet; it was one of the first things I checked.” They both looked doubtfully at Aubrey as he spoke. While Aubrey was indisputably a pet, whether or not he could be described as small was rather more open to debate.
Aubrey settled back down again and breathed a sigh of relief. That was all right then. Wherever it was they were going, he was clearly going with them. “And,” continued Jeremy, “Ferndale is a good school. Carlos stands a much better chance of getting some decent grades there. And even if it wasn’t such a good school, it has one huge advantage.”
“What?”
“It’s not Sir Frank’s.”
Jeremy tapped his thumb against his wine glass and frowned down at the table.
“The trouble is, I’ve been there too long. This exchange could be a real way out for me. You know as well as I do that the last five jobs I’ve applied for, I haven’t even made the short-list.”
“Well, I still don’t understand why not. You’re as well-qualified as anybody else and your results are good, everybody says so.”
“Yes, but they’re only good by Sir Frank’s standards which is a pretty low starting point. When they’re judged against the results of other schools, they look sick. Let’s face it, when less than half the year achieve grades A-C and some manage, rather admirably when you think about it, to achieve no grade at all, it takes a bit of explaining. The truth of the matter is, everybody now is judged against the stats. It’s no good trying to explain to an interview panel that half the class were being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for the majority of the academic year, while the other half saw school as a place to borrow a few fags or somewhere to hang out when it was raining.” He clutched the stem of his wine glass more tightly. “Moll, I have to find a way to get out. I don’t want to end up like old Ned.”
Aubrey agreed. He’d heard all about old Ned and seen him in the previous year’s staff photograph. Only five years older than Jeremy but prematurely aged, with thinning hair and scrawny neck, he had been wearing the kind of ill-fitting jacket which suggested that although it had been hand-made, it hadn’t been hand-made for him. Ned had been found by the school cleaners early one morning muttering gibberish to himself in the corner of the staff room. Managing to rouse himself, he had eventually staggered off to start his first lesson of the day only to be stretchered off five minutes later. Within two months he had retired early on the grounds of ill-health and dropped dead of a heart attack six months after that.
Molly smiled. “I don’t think that’s very likely.”
“Moll, even old Ned was somebody before he was old Ned.”
Aubrey stifled a yawn. Sometimes he had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. Anyway, wasn’t it about feeding time? A cat could starve to death at this rate. He toyed with the idea of flopping onto his back and feigning illness. It had worked a couple of times in the past.
“The thing I don’t understand though” Molly continued, “is why on earth anyone would want to swap a school like Ferndale for Sir Frank’s?”
From beneath the radiator Aubrey paused mid-flop and pondered the question. Molly had a good point. Who in their right mind would willingly teach at Sir Frank's other than the certifiably insane? It was a question that he had frequently heard Jeremy ask himself, usually on a Monday morning.
"I know, I’ve thought about that myself.” Jeremy considered for a moment. “I think that he’s probably ambitious. I’ve come across his type before. I suspect that he wants to get in as full a range of experience in as short a time as possible. Like collecting stickers.” He paused and stared ahead of him. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Give every new teacher a sticker book and when they’ve got enough, they can get promoted. It’s as good a way as any. They could have nice little stickers of licked arses. Anyway, I bet you this bloke will be a head teacher before he’s thirty-five. And let's face it, there’s no real risk to him. He's only got to stick it out for a year at Sir Frank's and then he’s got an urban comprehensive in the bag."
"Jeremy, a year can be a long time. Remember Peter."
There was a moment's silence while all three of them remembered Peter.
"The kids did say sorry.” He paused. “Some of them," he added.
"Yes, but honestly, hanging him upside down from the goalpost and building a bonfire under him..."
"They didn't actually light it, though, did they? Anyway, it's up to him. He must have checked out Sir Frank's before applying for the exchange. All the Ofsted reports are publicly available. He knows what he's getting into. Although," he paused for a moment and then continued. "I checked him out on Facebook. I must admit, he does look a complete dick."
"What's his name?"
"Quentin."
2
“So it’s definitely on then, is it Aubsie? No getting out of it?”
Aubrey shook his head. The late May sunshine was warm on his thick fur and he closed his eyes for a second, luxuriating in the heat. He’d miss this manor. He’d especially miss this garden. He didn’t even know whether the new place had one. He might end up being an indoors cat, which in his opinion was only one step up from being in a rescue centre. He opened his eyes again. Ah well, time enough to worry about that later. And who was he to start getting fussy? There had been moments in his life when just not being dead had seemed like a pretty good result. Out of the corner of one eye he watched as Moses dabbed at a butterfly, his tiny paws flailing ineffectually at the air as it floated away from him.
“No. There’s no going back. They’ve started making lists.”
At least Molly had. Insisting on something that she’d called an inventory, she had spent the last two days itemising everything in the house. As she’d said to Jeremy:
“It’s all very well just doing a straight swap but we don’t know anything about this Quentin.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. Anyway, he’s trusting us with his house too, don’t forget. And at least we know that he’s got a cat so he can’t be all bad.”
Aubrey had looked up, interested. He’d better let the lads know that there’d be a new cat on the block so they weren’t taken by surprise. It was only feline friendliness to give a new cat a fighting chance.
Vincent continued.
“Ah well, look on the bright side. It’s not for ever. You’ll be back before you know it. And,” he added, “at least they’re taking you with them.”
Aubrey nodded. Vincent was right. He was more relieved than he liked to admit that he was being included in Molly and Jeremy’s plans. While he didn’t really think that they would desert him, you could never be sure. Only last month he and Vincent had discovered Clyde, the black and white that had formerly lived at number twelve, desperately hungry and scavenging round the bins. His owners had divorced, the house had been sold and when everything had been divided up there was no place for Clyde. They hadn’t even had the decency to place him in a rescue centre which, while an appalling prospect in itself, at least would have meant that he would be safe and fed.
