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Feline Alchemy
by Sue Blake
Ratings:
260 pages4 hours
Summary
If you were given the power to change the world – forever – would you dare to try?
I am Sue Blake and, against my better judgement, I’ve decided to take ownership of this messed-up world of ours. Here are my confessions...
After I was saved from drowning on Christmas Day I accidentally made a deal that sent my whole life veering off the rails. Now I’m in thrall to two strong, bewitching women who call themselves Queens of the Nile. I’m also plagued by wolves, the police and ex-wives. They all want to ruin me.
But I can see a turning point. After all, I’ve got feline alchemy at my disposal. Maybe I can win?
Feline Alchemy is a quirky paranormal story set in modern-day England, blending dark fantasy with satire and warped romance.
Readers’ comments –
This is the most well written, well plotted urban fantasy that I’ve read—totally refreshing and full of dark humor, originality and imagination. The novel is in a brilliant original style that incorporates Kafka-esque moments with Henry Miller's stream of consciousness. Review by Howard Lipman—pen name PanOrpheus, author of the Delphic Oracle.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry as I whipped through the pages. To me, that defines a great and original book. Sue Blake's writing style cuts deep with realism and raw wit. If I had to pull an author out of my hat to compare him with I would have to say Palahniuk or maybe Prunty. Two of my favorites by the way. Review by Craig Furchtenicht, author of Dimebag Bandits.
Publisher: Sue BlakeReleased: May 18, 2014ISBN: 9781310696824Format: book
Book Preview
Feline Alchemy - Sue Blake
Author
Prologue
"But who will rule the world if I don’t, who will rule the world…?"
That question was ringing round and round in my dizzy head even then, though I had no idea why – I couldn’t work it out; I was too busy trying to remember where I was, stood motionless and staring up at the dark sky; no, I was staring up at the orange beam of a streetlight that was glowing against the dark sky; no, I was staring up at the drizzle that was caught in the orange glow of a streetlight, as it fell out of the dark sky. I was hypnotised by that drizzle: tingling, weaving, as it fell. Then I came to my senses again, slowly, managed to shake off that hypnotism of the glowing rain; understood where I was. I was close to home, with only a few streets still left to walk; although I couldn’t understand how I’d got there.
I couldn’t remember how I got to this place from… where was it? The office? Was this a weekday, had I been at work? I did my best to think back, grab hold of the memories I’d somehow let slip out of my grasp for the last few hours or so: and there I was, sat bored at my desk first thing in the morning; there was Nina and we were talking over the deadline for some project or other; then Nina was part of the crowd at the pub, smiling, holding my arm; I was feeling drunk, chatty; then I felt like I needed some air and I was deciding to walk home, choosing shortcuts and then…
It got hazier.
An assault… and then…? Stabbing, slashing – sharp flashes in the dark – crying – blood… Was that right? I swivelled round, quickly, peering as hard as I could into the shadows, checking to see if I registered any movement. Nothing. I looked all the way around, did a 360 degree turn, carefully taking note of what I saw. I could feel my heart lurching about in my chest, barely under control.
I hadn’t taken a single step yet, not since that hypnotising drizzle let go its hold of me. I felt an overwhelming need to be ultra-cautious: listening out for any ghost of a movement, tracking any signs of life. I wanted to make doubly sure I was certain of my bearings before I set off again and tried walking the last few streets between here and home; I didn’t want to risk any more wrong turnings tonight.
No sound anywhere except the wind in the trees. No movement except fluttering bits of litter along the side of the road. All as expected, all normal. At about half my normal pace, I headed home. I was taking unsteady steps, as if everything made me uncertain; as if I didn’t think I could even trust the path under my feet; as if everything could get switched round in an instant and be filled with unseen threats.
I remembered sounds of shrieking, did I? It didn’t seem possible, not possible that anyone’s voice could sound so inhuman as what I was remembering: like the language of metal would sound if metal could speak, as it got melted into agonising shapes.
I remembered how the landscape looked as the assault was happening – glaring, shifting. It didn’t seem possible. Maybe it wasn’t? I paused outside the door of my house, where it was peaceful, secluded, shaded by trees, and tried to get my racing heart and mind to slow down, so I could start to think properly.
But panic set in. I unlocked the door in a desperate, clumsy hurry. I slammed it shut behind me, as if that old wooden door could keep all the trouble out.
It couldn’t.
The assault, the blood and shrieks had made me scared. Now my own mind was making me more and more terrified. Those acts of butchery had no business inside my head, ignoring any hope I had of controlling what’s in my head.
Slumped against the wall in the dark hallway, I hid my face in my hands. With my eyes screwed shut I was gasping for air and I suddenly realised how my throat was desperately dry, so dry that it hurt me to try to swallow. So I went quickly into the kitchen, flashed on the light, and dipped my head under the tap as I turned it on.
Cold water flooded over my face and poured in my open mouth. I drank as fast as I could, gulping hard. It felt better. I felt sober. I felt calmer and safer.
And maybe that was all I needed? Was it just a bad, drunk hallucination that’d got out of hand because I felt too stressed and tired out? I turned off the tap, leaned back against the sink and massaged my wet face in my hands, soothingly. I drew deep breaths and felt glad.
The kitchen gleamed back at me, comforting and familiar and as untidy as I’d left it that morning. I looked at the washing-up piled up on the draining board beside me, which I needed to sort out tomorrow. I looked at the floor where the tiles needed going over with a dust-pan and brush, to gather up the debris of crumbs; where the tiles needed wiping down, too, because of the smeared stains I noticed, made where I’d walked across the floor a minute ago. Stains from my footprints looked rusty on the tiles; I lifted up my foot, to check the bottom of my shoe. That same rusty residue was caked on the sole from where I’d been walking through red puddles. The hems of my trousers had spatter marks in red.
Like blood.
Chapter 1 – Glaring
It was at the bridge on Christmas day – that’s when I first struck the bargain. Accidentally, I swear. Christmas day – and the tedium of it all was too hard to put up with anymore. So I walked away and just kept on walking, wanted to walk away from it all.
It was just before dawn; I hadn’t slept, having been celebrating, of course, having hilarious fun, as everyone gets ordered to. Freezing fog was everywhere; it soaked me as I walked along; it turned the town into a strange landscape I didn’t recognise: soft and orange under the streetlights, like a weird cartoon. It was soothing, so I kept on walking; walked till I reached the canal. There I stopped, stood on the bridge and just lingered, like a retard. I leant over the rail as far as I could, glared down at the dim ripples I could barely make out as they splashed by.
As I looked at the icy ripples glinting by, I felt myself start to fade away, bit by bit. All this world I got so sick of was fading away, bit by bit. It was restful. I was glad, felt close to getting it over with. Glaring, nearly hypnotised, at foggy specks of light rippling by like broken promises that fell out of the sky, my mind was calculating some basic maths – go down in the water three times but, lord, I’m only coming up twice.
Easy – maybe the end’s always easy, once you’ve accepted the real value of letting go? The railing of the bridge was slipping under me. It was close. I felt close.
Except this tapping sound came along from the far end of the bridge, from out the fog and creeping hints of dawn. I swear I flinched at the interruption. Maybe it was just a loose branch caught in the wind? Or a bird flapping? Or was it footsteps? Approaching? Then a cough, or muttered words; I don’t know. I just felt someone intruding and turned round to see.
You ain’t having the right for that – ain’t earned the right, boy.
A voice split through the fog before I saw anyone; it pierced that blackness I was fading into. A voice that had weight to it, an ancient growl; it woke me up again and made me regain my balance on the railing. I really resented that voice.
What?
I said, surprised. What right?
Suddenly I felt nervous, awkward. Dunno why. I straightened up and peered where that growling voice came from, where a hunched, dark shape was slowly forming in the fog: an old woman – the least valid type of creature on the planet. Bent, dragging herself along, ugly, exhausted. An old woman – her hoarse voice seemed like an act of aggression, somehow; deliberate provocation.
I mean the right to go bye-byes yet – the right to let all that ice go flooding in your lungs, boy – you just ain’t earned it, not yet.
Look, if I ask politely, will you please just piss off? You don’t know anything about me. And you haven’t got a clue what I’m doing here, either. It’s Christmas, so I’m bloody merry – too merry, probably, so I needed to clear my head. That’s all. Ok, you happy now?
O’ course I’m happy. Always happy, me – easy for me to be happy, cos I’ve earned the right, see?
No, I don’t see – because you’re mad and I’m getting cold now, and bored. Happy Christmas. Now, please, piss off.
Ain’t pissing off nowhere yet. Not till you show you’ve earned the right. If you’re really sure that’s what you want?
Why do you keep on blathering about rights?
Boy, you think Mr Death wants the likes of you just barging in on him, all unannounced like? Tut, boy, you say how you’re bored? Well, it ain’t nothing compared to the amount of bored Mr Death feels about you. You know why?
Well, I’m guessing it’s because I haven’t earned the right.
True. True.
What right, for god’s sake? When did death ever care about rights? Death ignores everyone’s rights, makes them vanish; makes them rot. And it couldn’t care less.
Wrong. Cos Mr Death he cares about one thing and one thing only – that everyone who wants to meet him better make sure they earned the right for his attention. He gets bored with anyone else, anyone who ain’t looking straight at Mr D and feeling hungry, y’know? Hungry like a pretty girl eyeing-up her lover’s crotch.
The old woman laughed at that, head tilted right back, wide-mouthed, so her false teeth slipped off her gums, for a sec, which made her clamp her jaws shut again, fast. The laughing was replaced by snickering from her slack lips. Sure, that’s how Mr D wants you to look at him – real hungry like. Not how you look at him, boy, like some limp little apology, shivering and shaking and trying not to see. Mr D needs a gift, like a pretty girl needs a gift ’fore she’ll open everything up for you.
What gift?
I said it knowing I didn’t want to say it.
Like this here kinda gift.
The old woman lifted up a scrawny arm and for the first time I noticed she was carrying something: a bag. Take it, then. Don’t stand and gawp like no half-wit. Mr Death he don’t like no half-wits.
I reached out to take the bag. As I grabbed it I realised I’d made a mistake: it was a sack instead of a bag, loosely tied-up and made of rough, ragged cloth. As I held the sack I felt it tremble and twitch – staring hard at it, I saw a fluttering movement that rippled along its sides. The sack swayed in my hand as I kept it at arms-length, staring blankly at the old woman’s delighted face.
Open it,
she growled.
I opened the sack and peered in, carefully. Inside, squirming around and rolling over each other, were two kittens, one white, one black. They mewed as the sack opened and they sensed fresh air. I closed the sack again.
I don’t want a cat and I don’t want kittens. If you’re looking to sell them you need to go somewhere else. I thought you realised I’ve got other things on my mind.
Sure, the boy’s got Mr Death on his mind – I know that. But what is it I kept saying?
Here she seemed to expect a reply from me; my reply was just to shove the unwanted sack towards her again, without a word, so she could take it back. Roughly, the squirming sack knocked against her chest but the old woman ignored the sack. What I kept saying is that you gotta earn it. Right there’s how you can earn it – look, bribes for Mr D.
Bribes?
I frowned.
Sure. Before you drop in, all unannounced like and not welcome at all, don’t you think it might be wise to offer a little bribe to D? You were wanting to dive right into those cold arms of his, right? Feel him grip you nice and tight, for always, and wash all the dirt off? Ok, so first just tie up that sack again and drop those furry little bribes in the water for him. They’ll drown nice and quick, with those little panting lungs of theirs. And they’re a nice little appetiser for D before he starts gnawing on your tough skin and bones.
Look, I don’t want your cats. I don’t want to buy them or keep them or drown them, either. Understand? They’re yours, so do whatever you want with them. If you’re throwing them in the canal, throw them. Or skin them, eat them; turn them into a nifty little scarf and wow all your mad friends at the asylum. I really don’t care. Just take them back.
No.
What do you mean, ‘no’?
I made an angry, shrugging gesture and the swaying sack, which had started to make my arm ache as I kept on holding it under her nose, dropped down by my side.
No. Cats are with you now. If you’re throwing ’em in the canal, throw ’em. Or skin ’em, eat ’em… I don’t care what you do – all three of you. You hear me? Do whatever.
And she hobbled round, abruptly, a hundred-and-eighty degrees, so as to drag herself back across the bridge in the direction she’d arrived from. But cats’ll be no problem for you now, will they, boy?
she yelled back over her hunched shoulder. Not when you’re so friendly with Mr D like you are. You just all three of you go and sink in that canal together. D likes brave people, people like you – people paying bribes.
And she laughed a growling laugh; the noise of it went twisting and fading in the fog – gone.
Wtf? It was weird, too weird and too frustrating.
For some reason I just stood there, rooted to the bridge. I let the old woman go, without making any sort of protest; without returning her cats to her as well ffs, her soon-to-be-dead cats. I felt the sack squirming again at my side, in a more and more panicky fashion; it rubbed and knocked against my leg.
Who doesn’t even have the decency to drown her own cats? Christ.
I yanked the sack open again, irritably. I peered in so as to choose one of the kittens to throw in the canal first – at least I’d give it some kind of a chance (not much) to float away in the icy current, struggle feebly up the bank and limp off (to starve, most likely); rather than just dropping both kittens in the water together, both trapped in the sack and clawing each other to bits as they tried to escape.
I’m a decent-minded person. Fair.
As I held the mouth of the sack open, peering inside, the white kitten managed to claw its way up the rough material, scaling the inside of the sack. It’d reached the lip, where my hand gripped the sack, and kept climbing; its little claws prickling my skin. Mewing as it blinked at the first light of day, it struggled up my arm. I watched.
Then I grabbed it round the chest; its tiny heart pattering furiously against the brittle rib-cage; I grabbed the kitten like a ball you could easily hurl a long distance, with its legs dangling and kicking in mid-air as they got yanked off my sleeve. I took aim at the canal.
Then I dropped the white kitten back in the sack, alongside the black kitten; careful not to clatter the squirming white bundle down onto the squirming black bundle below. Then I headed home.
Christmas morning was already melting the fog.
Chapter 2 – Life Lessons
So, on Christmas day I found myself back home, still in one piece despite my best intentions; safe among tacky decorations and Christmas cards from people I hardly knew; hemmed in by too much booze and chocolate and snowy adverts and Queen’s speeches and Slade. I found myself back in a stuffy, empty house rather than squatting, cold and stiff, at whatever banquet Mr D puts on for newly arrived guests.
Ah, but the icy canal looked so clean and welcoming. It babbled in my ear like a long-lost friend. And the fishes would’ve nibbled my skin and enjoyed it, whereas in that stuffy, empty house no one was about to start nibbling my skin.
A shame.
Had no choice but to blame those unwanted kittens – so unwanted that their mad, decrepit owner hadn’t even wanted to go to the trouble of drowning them; left muggins here to do it instead. Poor little sods!
Hell,
I thought, at least feeling unwanted gives us some common ground, right? Even if you have just gone and disrupted all the Christmas plans I’d made.
Then I tipped them unceremoniously out of the sack, sent them sprawling onto the carpet in the lounge, so I could get a better look at them. Maybe decide what to do next; assuming that drowning them both was going to remain out of the question.
The black kitten stared up at me, startled, and wet itself straight away; a nasty-smelling, thick, mucousy pool forming on the carpet. The white kitten darted behind the sofa and wasn’t heard from again all day.
Perfect. Chaos. Already.
I shook my head at the black kitten, which shook all over as it watched me with its huge, startled eyes. It seemed suitably sorry and appalled at the situation, so I went out to the kitchen to find some paper towels to clear up the mess. I swished the sack back and forth, irritably, as I walked.
And I was irritated – with the kittens, that old hag and with myself. More complications, when all I’d wanted for Christmas this year was no more complications ever again, y’know? Not too much to ask.
I swished the sack about in mid-air like a kid pretending it’s a weapon. But it was never going to make much of a weapon, even if it had nearly snuffed out a couple of lives earlier. I wondered if that old woman might’ve fitted inside her own sack if I’d folded her up properly? Maybe. Pity I hadn’t thought of it earlier.
Another missed opportunity. Typical, but no point dwelling on it; instead I just grabbed some paper towels so as to mop up the mess; dropped the sack in the bin. The sack was grubby and unhygienic. It wouldn’t be needed again.
So I tried caring for those abandoned kittens. More out of squeamishness than really caring, I suppose. Did I mention that I’m not a very nice person? But then who is nice, really? The Buddha, maybe, maybe he was kind of nice? But then I’m not the Buddha and neither are you, I’m guessing. Apart from that, people only get considered nice if they’re fulfilling one of two conditions:
1. You’re in love and/or lust with that person.
2. That person is doing exactly what you want them to do.
Anyone who no longer fits into either of those two categories has suddenly stopped being nice.
Bang, just like that. Hell, even the definition of what makes someone nice isn’t especially nice, is it?
Maybe the real genius of our species, the secret of our rise to prominence on this planet, was that ability to no longer act nice from one heartbeat to the next. As soon as nice
seemed a hindrance then being nice
could get switched off by us. Maybe that’s how we managed to lord it over the other beasts so long? Maybe all the other species needed much longer to turn the nice/not nice
switch on or off in their psyches each time, and it’s what held them back over the course of generations.
Ah well, the kittens were with me now – they’d learn.
So I started caring for those helpless kittens, in my fashion. I hadn’t gotten round to giving them proper names as yet – to be honest I wasn’t sure how long they’d be staying, or if I still might manage to get rid sooner rather than later – but I introduced myself, at least. Guessing that both the kittens might be girls, I said, with piss-take formality, Ladies, welcome to my home. I’m your host, Sue Thomas Diogenes Blake. All that’s mine is yours.
I should point out that, despite being male, my given first name was Sue. What can I say? My parents were both huge
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