Cat Kin by Nick Green Page B

rounded them up and led them into
the octopus limbs of a conifer.
    Revived by her nap, Tiffany scrambled through the wood’s vaulted roof. She was just reminding herself to slow down and let the others keep up when she felt a throb of unease, like a red
light, in her stomach. Something was going on behind her. She hurried back along the branch.
    ‘What’s the problem?’ Daniel was saying. ‘It’s an easy one. It’s no sweat.’
    ‘Enough,’ snapped Mrs Powell. ‘Let him take his time.’
    Olly stood bent-kneed midway along a bough. He wasn’t moving. At the edges of his face-print his skin was deathly white. Everything cat-like about him had drained away. He looked like a
plump teenage boy with a terror of heights, stuck twenty feet above the ground.
    ‘Why doesn’t he move?’ whispered Cecile. ‘He’s managed thinner branches than this.’
    ‘I reckon vertigo.’ Daniel wiped his glasses, which had steamed up. ‘My dad—’
    ‘Oliver.’ Mrs Powell’s voice rang out. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. I want you to close your eyes.’
    Olly swayed. He flung out his arms and whimpered.
    ‘Close your eyes,’ repeated Mrs Powell, ‘and picture blue. A blue cat’s eye. See it, Olly. The blue eye.’
    Ptep is my head, the balancing blue sky…
    His eyes stayed open, darting to and fro as if the leaves were closing in on him. His breath sounded like someone sobbing. Tiffany could smell the sweat glistening on his forehead. She wanted to
shout at him,
Don’t be scared. Don’t be scared
. Because fear was the problem. She had discovered for herself that pashki didn’t work properly if you were afraid. A
cat’s sense of fear was stronger than a human’s. It could become so violent that it smothered everything else. And then you were in trouble.
    Little by little his breathing settled. Tiffany thought he might move. He didn’t. Minutes passed. Mrs Powell climbed into a smaller holly tree, a few yards adrift of Olly, though it was
hard to see what she could do if he actually fell.
    ‘He’s not going to make it on his own,’ whispered Yusuf. Too loudly. Olly began to shake. He tried to kneel on the bough, then changed his mind.
    ‘No, Yusuf,’ Mrs Powell hissed. Yusuf had climbed down to where Olly’s branch sprouted from the oak and was now standing on it, stretching out his hand.
    ‘Come on, Ol.’ He sidled closer. ‘Give me your arm. You’ll be okay.’
    ‘Yusuf.’ Mrs Powell was barely audible above the shivering leaves. ‘Leave him. Don’t be a fool.’
    ‘Do as she says,’ gulped Susie.
    ‘I’ve got him.’ Yusuf seized Olly’s hand. Olly wouldn’t, or couldn’t, turn to face him. He had frozen. Mrs Powell crouched below on her branch, as tense,
Tiffany could feel, as a bowstring at full draw.
    ‘Step away from him
now
.’
    Something in her voice made Yusuf react. He tried to take back his hand but Olly gripped like a vice.
    ‘No—’
    The next few seconds were hard to follow, even though Tiffany saw them in slow motion. Yusuf pulled to get free. Olly fought to hold on. Yusuf reeled and, with a shout, shoved him away. Olly
stepped backwards onto nothing.
    Mrs Powell leapt, a blur, hooking her left hand onto the bough. With her right she snatched at Olly as he fell. She caught the neck of his grey T-shirt, her fingers going through the cotton, and
Olly stopped with a jerk, his shirt stretching like gum but amazingly not tearing. Mrs Powell clung on, her other hand clamped to the bark, the tendons standing out in ridges.
    ‘Quick as you can, please,’ she said through gritted teeth.
    Ben was there before she’d stopped speaking. Bracing his feet in a fork of the holly tree he grabbed Olly’s legs to take some of his weight. Daniel clambered to his side and seized
Olly’s arm. The three of them together eased him down. Olly cried out as he swung against the pointy leaves.
    ‘Hey. Anyone? I need some help here!’
    ‘Yusuf!’ Susie screamed. Her newspaper fell