Cat Kin by Nick Green Read Free Book Online

And,’ Ben glanced out of the window, ‘he’s been creeping around. I saw him near the flat.’
    ‘Stanford and Associates,’ murmured Dad. ‘I know where they’re based. Islington somewhere.’
    He stared into space.
    ‘Dad?’
    ‘I’d tell my solicitor to write him a rude letter,’ said Dad. ‘But it’d end up in the bin. No, Stanford’s a bully. Bullies speak one language.’
    Ben felt hope and alarm swilling round inside him.
    ‘You can’t go round there and beat him up. He’d get the police onto you.’
    ‘Not him. Anyway, I don’t like to hit people outside of boxing rings.’ Dad fell silent and pulled out another cigarette. He grimaced and put it back. ‘Sometimes all these
thugs need is the fear of God putting into them. I’ve seen it a hundred times.’
    ‘What are you going to do?’
    Dad ruffled Ben’s hair.
    ‘Never you mind. You stop worrying. And Lucy can stop worrying too. I might not live there right now, but I bought that flat with your mum and I still have fond memories. And you’re
more important still. No-one messes with my family, understand?’ Dad downed his drink and pushed back his chair. ‘No-one.’

    Mrs Powell’s ten-minute sequence of stretches usually lasted a year or so. Hunched in a Long Reach, Ben felt his shoulders about to catch fire, and began to wish that
he’d stuck with his original plan never to attend a pashki class again. (Why he did keep coming back, he was still not absolutely sure.) After that came more punishing poses, Arch On Guard,
Scratching Tree and Falling Twist, until Ben was one of only two left standing. Despite the agony in his calves he wouldn’t let himself wobble. Out of the corner of his eye he was watching
Tiffany. He would crack when she did.
    At last Mrs Powell showed mercy and let them rest. Ben lay flat on his back, too tired to check if Tiffany was doing the same. Then came a fresh mystery. Cecile and Olly were sent to fetch some
paper-wrapped bundles. These turned out to be slabs of grey clay. Ignoring all questions, Mrs Powell handed them out: ‘Press it over your face.’
    The clutch of the clay on Ben’s skin was cool and refreshing. It made him feel once again that everything, somehow, would be all right. He eased the clay off to see a perfect mould of his
features, eyes closed and calm. After that they had to queue outside Mrs Powell’s bathroom to wash the silt from their pores and eyebrows. When Ben returned to the studio, the clay moulds of
their faces were gone.
    The class sat before Mrs Powell. Ben knew the routine now: this was her pashki lecture. Last week she had begun to tell them of the ‘Mau body’, which she claimed was the invisible,
feline part of one’s self. It was all Greek to Ben (or at least, ancient Egyptian), but in his relaxed state he was happy to listen.
    ‘In most human beings,’ said Mrs Powell, ‘the Mau body is no more than a cat-shaped spark in the soul. In others, it burns more brightly. With training we can feed it, until it
fills our whole being. Turn your heads to the right.’
    Mrs Powell pointed to the cork noticeboard. A poster showed two outlined figures: a sitting cat and a human. Down the centre of each ran a line of six coloured dots. Cat eyes.
    ‘The Mau body springs from six points of power,’ said Mrs Powell. ‘Call them catras. Each catra channels a particular kind of energy and appears in a different zone of the
body. Balance is Ptep and resides in the head. Agility springs from Ailur, in the base of the spine. Face front and close your eyes.’
    Ben did so. A speck of clay was gumming one eyelash.
    ‘Picture the colour blue. The blue of a clear evening sky.’
    She paused. The studio whispered with breathing.
    ‘Draw the blue together. Squeeze it to a point. It becomes richer, sharper. It is burning blue.’ She waited. ‘A blue fire against the blackness. Stare at it. Stare at it. It is
the eye of a cat.’
    Relaxed though he was, Ben flinched. As she