Tooth and Claw Read online

  TOOTH AND CLAW

  By Stephen Moore

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  © 2013 / Stephen Moore

  First published in Great Britain in 1998

  By Hodder Children’s Books

  Background image courtesy of:

  http://joannastar-stock.deviantart.com/

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Stephen Moore would rather be writing books than writing about himself. But here goes:

  Stephen hails from the North East of England, a land he never tires of exploring; full of ancient Roman history, fantastic castles and remnants of the infamous Border Reivers.

  A long time ago, before he discovered the magic of storytelling, Stephen was an exhibition designer and he has fond memories of working in the strange old world of museums. Sometimes he can still be found in auction houses pawing over old relics!

  Stephen has shared his house with several of the animals that frequent his books, though not the flying pigs or foul-smelling brugan. He loves art and books, old and new. He’s into rock music and movies and theatre and video games! But mostly, he likes to write, where he gets to create his own worlds. If pushed very hard to name his favourite book of all time – there are many contenders – he’d have to say . . . Today, it’s a dead heat between, Robert Westall’s The Machine Gunners and Robert Louis Stephenson’s Treasure Island.

  Maybe, his own books are OK too?

  Book List

  Dead Edward

  Fay

  Fiddlesticks and Firestones

  Skin and Bone

  Spilling the Magic

  The Brugan

  Tooth and Claw

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  For Peter Moore

  CONTENTS

  Part One

  Chapter One: Comings and Goings

  Chapter Two: The Howling

  Chapter Three: Grundle’s Ghost

  Chapter Four: A Hurt as Deep as Life

  Chapter Five: Run, or Die

  Chapter Six: The Glint of Murder

  Chapter Seven: The Council of Cats

  Chapter Eight: The Veil of Snow

  Part Two

  Chapter Nine: Deep Winter Snow

  Chapter Ten: The Stakeout

  Chapter Eleven: A Desperate Escape

  Chapter Twelve: At Home in the Iron Drum

  Chapter Thirteen: Drowning

  Chapter Fourteen: Beacon and a Tricky Knot

  Chapter Fifteen: The Hole in the Town

  Part Three

  Chapter Sixteen: Living with the Wild Cats

  Chapter Seventeen: The Shadow Stalking

  Chapter Eighteen: The Shadow Falling

  Chapter Nineteen: The Field of Stones

  Chapter Twenty: Dart’s Idea

  Chapter Twenty-One: The Gathering-in

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Great Council

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Live Bait

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Endings and Beginnings

  PART ONE

  Dread Booga was asleep in the dark. Hidden, like a guilty secret, beneath the town; beneath the place of men. Out of sight, out of mind. The creature spent most of its time asleep. Asleep was best. Awake it was frightened, worried, puzzled. It was certain it did not belong in this awful place, in this awful world.

  Had there been an accident? Inside its injured head there were few memories. A fleeting image of breathtaking beauty; a deep black starlit sky. The certainty that at some time it had travelled a long, long way. Did it belong there, up among the stars?

  It had not travelled alone. The delicate dried-up bones of its mate lay broken and scattered close by, where it had died. How long ago was that? A season? A lifetime? Or a hundred lifetimes?

  And why did it hide? It was a creature more of spirit than of body. Its first memory of this world was the cruel, unbearable weight of a million selfish thoughts – men’s thoughts – pressing in upon its own, clouding its mind, hurting it. Forcing it to escape into the darkness of the pit where men’s thoughts were loath to follow. Caging it there like a wild beast, until a wild beast it had become.

  There were other animals in this strange world; lesser animals than men with lesser thoughts that did not give it pain. They had seen the creature come, had run away before it.

  And it was these other animals who had given it a name.

  Booga, they called it.

  Dread Booga.

  The name tired mothers used to scare troublesome kits to sleep at night. “Shush now, or Dread Booga will come for you. Dread Booga will come.”

  It had become a thing of dark legend, of superstition and nightmare. Perhaps that was for the best . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  Comings and Goings

  “Ow!” Mrs Ida Tupps squealed, and leapt into the air. The cat’s claws dug deeper. Pierced the old woman’s thick woollen jumper, her cotton blouse and winter vest. Pricked the loose warm folds of her skin beneath, and there took a tight hold.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!” With every “Ow!” Mrs Ida Tupps gave another leap into the air, hopping wildly from one ancient leg to the other. “Why, you horrid cat! – Miss Bryna Tupps – sticking your nasty little pins into me like that.”

  Unrepentant, Bryna’s claws dug deeper still.

  “Yoooo-oooOW! – I won’t have you in this house a minute longer. I won’t. You can spend your night outside, madam. Let’s see how you like that!” Mrs Ida Tupps took a deep breath, puffed herself up, and holding the young queen off at arm’s length, blustered her way between the sitting-room and the front door.

  Bryna called out in desperation, her yowling almost as sharp a cut as her claws. And her cry said, “This is not fair. I don’t care if I was sitting in your chair. I was there first! I was warm, I was tired. I was belly-full and contented. And I really, really don’t want to be put outside!” She pushed and pulled, scratched and clawed against the arms that held her fast. But Mrs Ida Tupps did not understand. The silly old woman never understood a single word she said.

  Bryna heard the front door clack open. Felt the first icy blast of midnight air. Felt herself dropped, unceremoniously, to the ground. The door was snapped shut behind her with a string of muffled words. Then the pale yellow light behind the hall window was switched off.

  The cold and the dark of the winter’s night closed in around her. She flicked her tail stubbornly, the fur on her back twitching with annoyance. “I don’t want to be outside!” she cried. “I don’t want to be outside!” Nobody was listening.

  Her nose was still full of old, familiar, indoor scents. The stuffy, stale air. The dry and drowsy warmth. And the peculiar, sharply sour, unnatural smell that was Mrs Ida Tupps. For a moment she remembered her food bowl, the whiteness of a saucer of milk, and the luxury of soft, comfortable things to sleep on. But then, the wind began to curl around her, blowing away such thoughts, and she lost them.

  Reluctantly, Bryna turned her head into the wind. All at once, the town heaped itself upon her, in a mad, confused whirl, flooding her senses; too much for the wit of a lazy,
dull-brained house-cat. The brick, the stone, the iron, the glass. The crippling weight of the countless buildings, stacked remorselessly, one against the next in never-ending lines. The prickling sting of street lights. Here, the shrieking of birds in flight. There, the reek of stray cats. From far off, the soft warning smells and the tickling sounds as a river danced. And beyond, the puzzlement of dumb animals standing out upon open fields. And then in one great burst, the roar of the metal road machines – the cars and the buses, the lorries and the motorcycles – with their burning oils and choking gases. All shapes, all sizes, all mad as hell, with staring eyes that scorched the night as they charged endlessly up and down. Forever going, never getting there. And always, first and last, always and always, the heavy scents of men calling to her; this is all mine, mine, mine, mine!

  Bryna’s fur bristled; a new, pungent odour stung her nose, soured her tongue, and drove away all else. At last a scent she did understand . . . dog. The stench of a dog, close by. She lifted her nose and sniffed deeply . . . A low purr rose up in her throat; this was a stale scent, yesterday’s smell, and without threat.

  Bryna gave herself a quick lick for confidence sake, and tried to soothe herself with thoughts of her own private outside world. Her prowl. Yes, as is the right of all cats, even this poor lap-cat has her prowl. Around and about her was the clutter of houses she took great pride in knowing by their names. There was Shipley Avenue, St Basil’s, Her’s Over The Road, Piggy’s Lonnen and The Corner Shop. Names she had learned as a kit from Mrs Ida Tupps. Of course, exactly which houses matched which name she was less sure of, so she had taken to calling them all The Lonnen. It was a poor prowl then, a short walk between houses and back gardens, trees and rubbish bins, hedges and back lanes. A prowl beyond which she dared not venture. But at least it was all hers and, for the most part, trouble-free.

  Satisfied at last for her safety, Bryna stalked carefully around the side of the house and headed for the back garden path.

  She did not get very far. She stopped instinctively, halfway down the path. Another scent? A movement? Something odd. The undergrowth beneath the garden hedge crackled and shook. Bryna stood rigid, her eyes wide open in the darkness, body stanced, ready to run.

  “Bryna? Bryna, is that you?” A tiny voice squeaked. A small, rusty-orange-and-white shape fell out of the hedge and tumbled to a standstill.

  “Oh! It’s only you, Treacle,” Bryna said. In front of her stood a young tom, a kitten still, not a season old. She sat down heavily and turned her head away from him, pretended to ignore him.

  “I’m sorry if I scared you,” Treacle said, coming closer, but not quite daring to touch her. “Tupps put you out again, has she?” Without waiting for an answer, he bounded into the hedge and then out again as if he was in a chase.

  “Yes, no, well . . .” Bryna licked her shoulder needlessly. “No. No, of course you didn’t scare me. And of course I wasn’t put out,” she lied. “It was just so uncomfortably stuffy inside.”

  Treacle ran a quick circle around her, and deliberately fell over between her paws. “Can I come prowl with you, then?” he begged. She did not answer. Instead she turned her back on him, slipped behind the dustbin and out of the garden through a hole in the wire fence that grew up among the hedge. “Can I?” he called after her, following anyway. “I won’t get in your way. Promise.”

  The dog was lying curled up in his own armchair, the armchair that stood in the corner of the living-room next to the window. He was grumbling to himself. The Mister and The Missus had forgotten him, again.

  The Mister and The Missus? That’s what the old man and woman who lived with him called each other. And they called him Dog; when they remembered him at all, that is. His real name was Kim. He remembered that from his first home with the Kellys. Not Dog. You can’t call a dog Dog, can you?

  The Mister and The Missus had shut him in the living-room. They had forgotten his dinner, forgotten his walk too. And they were deaf. Stone deaf. He’d barked himself hoarse and still they hadn’t heard him. Eventually, he had given up and taken to sulking in his armchair. You could see a lot from that chair. It stood in front of the window, and the curtains were never closed, day or night. Of course his eyes weren’t up to much these days.

  “Time for my walk,” he growled sullenly. “The Kellys never forgot my walk. Not once in twelve years . . . You’ll have gone to your beds, I suppose?” There was no reply.

  Kim tried to listen instead, but his ears weren’t any better than his eyes. Nothing seemed to work properly any more. Not at his age. His fur kept falling out in great lumps. He was out of breath at the least run. And as for his legs – oh dear, his legs would hardly keep him upright for five minutes before demanding a rest. “Long enough for a walk, though,” he whined. “And there’s my belly too! It’s empty!” He could feel the wind building up inside him, blowing him up like a human kitten’s toy balloon. He twisted himself around in his armchair and farted. “Oh, I’m much better for that. Much better for that . . .” He shut his eyes, and tried to comfort himself with sleep.

  Maybe he did fall asleep, maybe he was asleep and was only dreaming when the noises came. If only the thumping on the front door had not seemed so real; at first like fists hammering, and then like the weight of a whole body thrown against it. Suddenly, there were big, bright lights swooping down through the night sky, biting holes out of the darkness. The heavy fwump, fwump, fwump of an engine. And the squeal of hard metal voices yelling commands. There were real voices too, out there in the street. Urgent voices, demanding voices. Kim lifted an ear, tried to listen, tried to understand.

  “Hello? HELLO? Is there anyone in there? . . . Who lives at this one, Sarge?”

  “Get that woman from next door. See if she knows owt. There’s the whole ruddy street to clear!”

  Thumping on the front door again, almost breaking it in.

  “Violet, Violet pet, are you there?” A terrified squeak of a voice. “Violet, it’s me . . . Susan. SUSAN CLARKE, FROM NUMBER FORTY-FIVE.” Her knuckles rapped hard against the wooden door.

  “Bloody deaf old codgers.” The demanding voice again. A heavy boot thudded against the door.

  Kim heard movement out in the hallway. Feet clumping nervously down the stairs. Scared voices whispering. “What time’s it, The Mister?”

  “What you say?”

  “Must be the middle of the night.”

  “What you say?”

  “Who’s there? Do you hear me, who’s there?” The Missus called out weakly. “I’m warnin’ you, we’ve got a big dog.”

  “What you say?”

  “Violet, pet . . . IT’S MRS CLARKE. Can you come to the door?”

  The click of the hall light. Door bolts clacking open. More voices in the street. Screams. Tears. Scurrying feet.

  “Right. Everyone, quick as you can now. Up you come.” The metal voice rang out from the sky. “No, you can’t bring a great pile of luggage with you! And no, definitely no flamin’ pets. We’re shifting a whole ruddy town here. Not going on a ruddy holiday. Now, move along.”

  “What they say?”

  “Eee, The Mister. I can’t go climbin’ up there dressed in me nightie. I’ll catch me death.”

  “What you say?”

  “And where are you takin’ us, son? This is a free country. Or at least, it was. Can’t go draggin’ respectable people out of bed in the middle of the night.”

  “Out of here. That’s where we’re taking you, missus,” yelled Sarge.

  “Yes, but why? This is our home, and there’s all me belongin’s—”

  “I’ll tell you why, missus – because I’ve been bloody well told to! That’s why. Now, come on. You can put in for compensation same as everybody else!”

  “What they say?’

  “Look – it’s an evacuation, mister. A State of Emergency. Don’t you watch the telly? It was all on the news! Ruddy politicians are at each other’s throats again!”

  “Eee, son, you’d think tw
o countries that’s been neighbours as long as us would have run out of things to quarrel about.”

  “Aye, well— it’s the border this time: can’t even decide between them where to draw a ruddy line on the ground! So, they’re giving us one each!”

  “What you say?”

  “A border each, coast to coast! With a ruddy great five-mile gap between them that’s not going to belong to nobody. A sort of no-man’s-land to stop the squabbling once and for all; and this town’s right in the middle of it. You know, mister – NO-MAN’S-LAND. Like in World War One! Same as with the bloody Germans. SAME AS WITH THE BL— Oh, never mind! Just get moving, will you? We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “These two the last of them?” called the metal voice. “What? . . . No, I said, no animals. No exceptions.”

  The machine roared louder, then louder still, filling the whole house with its fwump, fwump, fwump, until even the walls shook with fear. Then it was gone, its lights disappearing over the rooftops.

  Kim suddenly realised – he hadn’t barked once. Not a whimper. Hadn’t even jumped down from his chair to scratch at the door. Well, you don’t, do you, not when it’s a dream? And it was a dream, wasn’t it? He shuffled himself about and, far too warm and comfortable to worry any more about it, lost himself inside a deeper sleep.

  “Do you think it’s safe, Bryna? Do you think it’s safe to go home yet?” Treacle whispered from the hiding place he’d found for himself deep inside the privet hedge.

  “I’m, I’m not sure.” Bryna was hiding close by, in the same hedge, her eyes screwed up tight shut. They’d been hiding most of the night. Ever since those awful machines had flown at them out of the night sky. Bryna knew about the metal birds – the aeroplanes. She expected to find them way up in the sky, safely out of reach and harm’s way. But these machines weren’t the same at all. They flew very, very low, stood still upon the air, had huge arching lights that chased you across the ground, growling voices that made terrible threatening noises. And the noises had been contagious. There had been banging on front doors, people spilling out on to the streets, noisy with fear and panic. Then the grumble of the traffic out on the main roads had become suddenly too loud, as if there was far too much of it. In fact, the whole town had become suddenly too loud. That was when Bryna and Treacle had taken to the hedge, and they were still hiding there, long after the town had gone quiet again.