Blackout (3 page)

The day was over. Shakespeare had avoided the paddling pool and had absorbed every piece of news he could. His overworked iPad was recharging, as was he, curled up at the foot of Sophie's bed. His body twitched and his eyelids flickered as a nightmare ripped through his sleep.

It had started as a strange slow-motion dream. He was floating in space, a fishbowl on his head, trying to grab pieces of satellite as they floated past. ‘The world is depending on you, space puss,' said Ollie's voice. Then, to Shakespeare's horror, the fishbowl started filling up. The water was up to his mouth, then his nose. Shakespeare twitched in his sleep. ‘I can't breathe,' he gurgled as a goldfish swam past his eyes …

The next moment his nightmare brought him back to earth with a bang. There was no spacesuit, just a huge man leering at him. ‘No, please. Not me,' he meowed as the man bent down and caught him by the scruff of his tiny kitten neck. Shakespeare's body kicked in his sleep as the man scooped him into the sack, where he wriggled for freedom with his brothers and sisters. Then it all went dark, and hot, as the sack was tied and slung over the man's shoulder. The eight kittens kept still, trying to stay comfortable as the man marched across the fields. Then he stopped.

Shakespeare could smell water. His nose twitched.
Flowing water. Probably a river?
And there was a terrible moment when the sack was thrown through the air before splashing in. It took a few seconds before water started seeping into the sack. There was panic among his brothers and sisters as they struggled in the darkness. Shakespeare could feel the sack being dragged by the current.
We're flowing with the river and sinking
, he thought as the water got higher. He had no choice but to stand on his brother's head to claw at the top of the sack. Shakespeare could hear his siblings
meowing for their lives. It was hot. And dark.
And getting wetter by the second
. He clawed again and daylight broke through. The sack was half full by now, and he reached down and pulled his baby sister out of the water at the bottom of the bag. He lifted her to safety. She was mewing very quietly.
Probably in shock
.

‘Don't give up,' meowed Shakespeare, leaping at the top of the sack and creating a hole large enough to scrabble through. He hauled himself out and lowered his paw. One by one, his brothers and sisters were heaved out and they leapt for their lives, plunging into the river, paddling frantically. ‘Swim for it,' he meowed, his eyes scanning for the best way to ensure his own survival.

Seven cats were struggling through the water towards the bank on his right, but the sack had drifted and he calculated that the left bank might be a better bet. His mind was working overtime.
It's less steep so, if I make it, I'll have a chance of clambering on to dry land
. Shakespeare had no time to think any more. Kittens' ears were bobbing about to his right.
They can't swim! I just hope they learn fast!

If I stay put, I'll drown
. His brothers and sisters were paddling for their lives, ears and noses just about staying above water.
If I go right, I'll drown. If I swim left, I might drown
. All the options were bad.

The sack had finally sunk and, the decision made for him, his legs were kicking and he could feel the cold water chilling his tiny body.
I hate water
! Shakespeare's back legs kicked out for the left-hand bank …

… and the huge effort woke him with a jolt. The cat gasped for breath and he came to his
senses. His fur was standing on end. His heart was pounding and his breathing quick.

Water! It's no wonder it's my worst nightmare
.

He'd survived being thrown into a river, but he wondered if his brothers and sisters had made it.

Gordon Blooming-Whittingstall was bellowing at his staff. ‘It's celebrity night at Numero Uno,' he yelled. ‘And we've got a restaurant full of top-notch A-listers. These people are dripping with fame and wealth. They are used to the best. They expect the best. And tonight, you muppets, we will give them the best meal they've ever had.'

The head chef's hat was sagging under the strain. Gordon Blooming-Whittingstall spent all his time cooking on TV and had actually forgotten how to cook in real life. If his wife wanted him to make beans on toast, she had to follow him around with a camcorder while he explained how to heat the beans. But that didn't stop him shouting. He noticed the pile of washing-up was getting bigger. ‘You're daydreaming again, Reg!' he bellowed to the oldest person in the kitchen, a man of
about forty who was up to his elbows in soapsuds.

‘Sorry, boss,' said the man, plunging his hands back into the dirty water.

Washing pots was the lowest level of the food chain. The washer-upper had nobody to shout at. Most kitchens used young people as pot-washers. But Gordon Blooming-Whittingstall had driven all the youngsters away. The only person who he could get to stick at the job was Reg. Reg had lasted almost
a week, reliably (and very slowly) washing the dishes.

Reg didn't mind. The Past Master had sent him on a mission and he didn't care how he was being treated because tonight was going to be his night. He loved washing up, especially the old-fashioned way with rubber gloves and suds. But it was hot in the kitchen and his disguise was melting. His wig was itchy and his make-up had begun to run down his neck. He was thankful that all the staff were too busy to look very closely. If they had, they'd have noticed signs of his real age. The big ears, extra-long nose hairs and the fact that his trousers were pulled up almost to his nipples.

He was glad of the bright yellow gloves. Not only did they protect his hands from the boiling water, they also hid his eighty-four-year-old fingers. His bony knuckles were almost impossible to disguise so the best thing was to keep them hidden. Nobody would employ an eighty-four-year-old so he was doing his best to act like a man half his age. He stood as tall as his bent spine would allow.

Reg studied the craziness of the kitchen. A small colony of workers scurrying around like ants under a rock.

The old man looked at the plates of food that were ‘ready to go' to table 16.
Why is modern food always arranged in towers?
he thought.
And why no gravy? And why do they have such huge plates with hardly any food on them? And what on earth is ‘couscous'?
He thought back to his day.
A large plate of piping-hot meat and two veg, swimming in gravy. Always with potatoes. No fancy pasta or rice. And certainly no couscous. We had proper food
, he thought,
and it never did us any harm
. Reg was motivated by the thought that it wouldn't be long before those days returned.

‘I said stop daydreaming, Reg!' bellowed the restaurant owner. ‘There's no slacking in my kitchen. We need two hundred clean glasses because I'm about to do a toast to our wonderful customers to thank them for attending our celebrity night.'

Reg smiled a wry smile. His moment had almost arrived. He'd seen to it personally that each bottle of bubbly had been injected with a sleeping potion. Trays of the stuff were being sent into the restaurant. Reg slipped off his yellow gloves and listened while Gordon proposed a toast and all the customers raised their glasses. ‘To Numero Uno,' sang Gordon.
There was a loud chant of ‘Numero Uno!', lots of clinking of glasses and then Gordon reeled off a terribly cheesy speech. There was a round of applause and then all the celebrities rekindled their conversations, bragging about their latest reality TV projects.

Reg took charge of the kitchen staff. ‘Ladies and gents,' he beamed. ‘We have pulled it off. We've served two hundred minor celebrities the most overpriced meal they've ever had. And Gordon's never going to thank us. So I propose we have a sip of his best champagne and toast ourselves.'

The worker ants cheered. ‘Great idea, Reg,' grinned the chef, sweat dripping into the saucepan he was stirring.

Reg led by example. He raised a glass of fizzy water, his ancient hand shaking just a little. ‘To us,' he pronounced. ‘The best kitchen team in the world, ever.'

‘To us,' chorused thirty-six staff, quaffing their well-earned drugged champagne.

Five minutes later Reg was having the time of his life. He had removed his wig and wiped the make-up from his face, revealing his eighty-four years with pride. He noted that
most of the sleeping celebrities were very heavy on make-up. Some were orange.
And none of them have wrinkles
, he noticed,
not even the old ones. How odd
. He took a small magnifying lens from his pocket and approached a sleeping lady, marvelling at her sparkly necklace. He bent down and snipped it, catching the weight of it in his hand.
Feels heavy
, he thought.
Always a good sign
. He put the small lens to his eye and examined the jewels. ‘Nope,' he said, blinking a magnified eye. ‘Fake diamonds. That's modern celebrity for you. In my day, film stars would only wear real diamonds. That's another example of standards slipping.'

Reg spent a happy hour examining the celebrities' sparkly jewellery. He'd chosen the job with this night in mind. He was in pursuit of diamonds and it was a fair bet that there would be celebrities dripping with them at an event like this. He was pleased with his evening's work. But the first orange people were beginning to rouse themselves, all woozy-headed, so he thought it best to leave.

His rucksack was satisfyingly heavy. His best haul had come from a young lady whom he'd
seen on a daytime soap opera. Two diamond earrings and a marvellous belly-button diamond.
Nice
, he'd thought, easing it out with a toothpick. And he couldn't resist Gordon Blooming-Whittingstall himself. The restaurant owner had been snoring on the floor. Reg had struggled to get the diamond ring off his bloated finger, but he'd applied some of his washing-up liquid and managed it in the end. Plus Gordon's fabulous diamond-encrusted watch.
What a bonus
, thought Reg, popping that into his bag and slipping out into the London night.
The Past Master will be pleased with me
.