Behind him, Owen watched as the column of people and equipment made their way across the field. It was a journey he’d been planning on making himself, but in the end, he hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage to. He’d been so worried about the possibility of being attacked by a were-cat in the fields surrounding Stonker Edge farm that all he’d been able to do was to keep watch, and so far, he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary.
Dross saw something in the grass, something white, like a cage. He paused.
“Dross, what is it?” The Mayor asked.
Dross realised that what he’d seen was a cow’s ribcage. What could it mean?
“Nothing,” he said with false confidence. “This way.”
He started walking again, becoming aware now of faint movements in the grass, as if small animals were scuttling around in it.
Must be the wind, he thought, until he noticed that some of the movements seemed to be in the opposite direction to the wind. Then he thought: it could be badgers, if they have badgers around here.
Then he and the mayor heard a howl of pain.
CHAPTER 38
Everybody turned their heads to see a CIA man at the edge of their column fall into the long grass and disappear from view. Two of his colleagues ran over to help him.
“Aaargh!”
“Aaaaargh!”
Then they were gone, too, unaccountably, as if the grass had somehow swallowed them up. The rest of the CIA team drew their guns and surrounded the President, forming a circle around him, all of them facing away from him, pointing their weapons into the grass.
“We’re going to escort you out of here, Mr President,” one of them said, “head back towards that hole in the wall we came in by.”
The motorcycle cops who’d been waiting by the cars heard the screams and saw the CIA men going down. They revved up their bikes and headed through the opening in the wall and set off like the cavalry in the grass at either side of the path.
Owen looked on, his heart beating rapidly. He was sure that this was a were-cat attack and that he was going to record it on video, and prove to the world, and, most importantly to his wife, that he wasn’t going mad.
As he looked on, one of the motorcyclists in the grass went down, seemingly acquiring some sort of furry coat just before he did. Owen took out his mobile phone. His hands were trembling with excitement. Or was it fear? Whatever it was, the mobile dropped from his grip. By the time he’d picked it up, three more of the motorcycle cops had gone down. He raised the mobile to begin filming and then he saw a movement in the grass a few yards away. He dropped the mobile and ran for it as fast as he could, past the long line of limousines parked by the side of the road, past the golf club, and even though he had dodgy knees, and even though running hadn’t been his thing for many years, he somehow kept going until he’d reached the comforting streets of Birkby far below Stonker Edge.
Behind him, events were taking an unplanned turn.
Doughnut turned around and walked back the way he’d come. His praetorian guard of CIA men barged the cameramen and sound crews who were filming them to one side in order to get through. A news reporter ran forward to get the President’s comments on the situation and was pushed aside to enable the President and his men to make quick progress.
At the head of the line, the Mayor turned to Dross. On the periphery of his vision he noticed a motorbike cop falling sideways into some thistles.
“You better not ’ave fucked things up for the town of ’Uddersfield, young man,” he said.
Dross felt his heart beating rapidly, and it wasn’t just because of the Mayor’s words. His instincts were telling him that he was facing the biggest threat of his life, but he had no idea what that threat might be. He spread out his arms.
“I haven’t,” he said. “I swear to God that I haven’t fucked things up. This has got nothing to do with me, whatever it is.”
The Mayor wagged a plump forefinger in Dross’ face.
“No lad, it ’asn’t got owt to do with you,” he said. “But you’re the one who thought of it and led us all up ’ere. And I ’ave this funny feeling that we’re all going to be fucked because of you.”
The Mayor looked around and noticed the same thing that Dross had noticed a couple of minutes earlier: that the grass seemed to be moving here and there, as if small animals were concealing themselves in it, and — the thought made him shudder — stalking them.
“I’m getting out of ’ere,” he said.
He turned and began walking back the way he’d come..
Camemblert, who had been a few yards behind the mayor and Dross, looked at his aide.
“What the devil is going on, Johnson?” he asked.
“I don’t know Prime Minister,” said Johnson, “But common sense would suggest that we ought to leave, quickly.”
They turned around, noting as they did so that the entire column of people that had been following them was doing the same, and in the process were colliding into each other. Some were falling over, mainly cameramen and sound men, who were disadvantaged by having things to carry, and being brutally pushed to one side by the CIA.
The CIA team soon got to what had formerly been the rear of the column, and was now the front, largely because two of them had gone to either side of the President and done their best to propel him along the path at speed. They were now only fifty yards or so from the exit back to Stonker Lane, and, following in their wake, there was a long line of people, including eight very pissed-off TV crews.
The CIA men abruptly came to a halt and everyone behind them collided into each other.
The people at the back couldn’t see what had caused the CIA team halt.
“Why has everybody stopped?” Camemblert asked.
“Heaven alone knows, prime Minister,” said Johnson. “Our American cousins have always been a flighty and unpredictable lot, as you know.”
Two gunshots rang out across the field.
“What the devil was that?” Cameblert asked.
“I believe it was gunfire, Prime Minister,” said Johnson.
CHAPTER 39
At the head of the line there was a dead CIA man lying next to the path. Two cats were on top of him. They’d been ripping chunks from his face until two of his colleagues had shot them.
The cats had both been hit in the torso, but apart from having holes that ran clean through them, they appeared unhurt. What’s more, they looked very pissed off.
One of the CIA men turned to the other. “Oh my fucking God,” he said.
The cats crouched low and wiggled their backsides.
“They’re about to pounce,” said his colleague. “Quick, take a head shot.”
They aimed and shot. The heads of both cats exploded. The headless torsos collapsed to the ground, their legs twitching.
“What the hell were they?” Doughnut asked.
“I don’t know sir,” said one of the two CIA men at his side. “But don’t worry. We’ve just got rid of the problem.”
As the words left his mouth, the grass ahead of them parted in various places and heads began to stick out of it. Cat heads. Two cats appeared on the path in front of them: Henderson and Goliath.
“Oh my fucking God,” Said the CIA man again. He directed his gaze at Henderson, running his eye over his curiously flattened and spiked midriff. “What in the name of fuck is that?”
“Quick,” said a voice behind him, “take the president back the other way.”