Cat Out of Hell

  Praise for Cat Out of Hell

  “An incredible tale … Full of trademark dry Truss humor and lovely literary references, this book has some unforgettably gory bits, too. You may never look at a cat in quite the same way again.”

  – Daily Mail

  “It’s not really horror at all, but a masterpiece of comic writing. Truss expertly mixes up screenplay, emails and a parodic first-person narration, and the result is a novel as entertaining as it is addictive.”

  – The Sunday Telegraph

  “One of those rare books that actually makes the reader laugh out loud, with its tale of evil, mind-controlling cats … Impossible not to read in one sitting.”

  – The Sunday Times

  “There’s an apology at the beginning to anyone expecting ‘proper horror.’ For this is cozy fright-lite—more gentle escapism than serious screams. Of course there’s not an apostrophe out of place. But Truss is no dull punctuation prefect. Warm humor was what made Eats, Shoots and Leaves a hit and she hasn’t lost her touch. There are plenty of spirited references to modern life, including people cycling on the pavement, misusing their mobile phones and even older men running off with younger girls … It is good fun and the perfect lesson in how to use the power of punctuation to your advantage.”

  – Evening Standard

  “Reading it is like walking at speed through a steep, higgledy-piggledy town at dusk—perhaps one of those in Dorset, where the book’s climax takes place. It has a whiff of Dennis Wheatley and M R James about it at times … [Truss displays a] genuine flair for the macabre … and great pathos with which she writes about the gossamer thread sometimes separating life from death … Truss brings an eerie, 19th-century kind of horror into the present-day world.”

  – The Guardian

  “A wonderful tale full of parodies, pastiches and paradoxes. pure joy.”

  – The Telegraph

  “A comic chiller in the best tradition of mad British humor.”

  – Daily Express

  “An inventive tale that’s sure to make you smile. Even if you’re a dog person.”

  – SFX

  “Tremendous fun.”

  – SciFi Now

  “A Gothic tale guaranteed to surprise, move and entertain.”

  – Woman’s Weekly

  “I doubt there are many authors with the wit, never mind the willingness, to render the glub and gruesome as well as Lynne Truss does.”

  – Tor.com

  Also by Lynne Truss

  FICTION

  A Certain Age

  Going Loco

  Tennyson’s Gift

  With One Lousy Free Packet of Seed

  NONFICTION

  Get Her Off the Pitch

  Talk to the Hand

  Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation

  Making the Cat Laugh

  FOR CHILDREN

  Twenty-Odd Ducks: Why, Every Punctuation Mark Counts!

  The Girl’s Like Spaghetti: Why, You Can’t Manage Without Apostrophes!

  Eats, Shoots & Leaves: Why, Commas Really do Make a Difference!

  CAT OUT OF HELL

  Copyright © 2015 by Lynne Truss

  Originally published by Hammer, an imprint of Random House, in the United Kingdom, February 2014

  First Melville House printing: March 2015

  Melville House Publishing

  145 Plymouth Street

  Brooklyn, NY 11201

  and

  8 Blackstock Mews

  Islington

  London N4 2BT

  mhpbooks.com facebook.com/mhpbooks @melvillehouse

  Library of Congress

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Truss, Lynne.

  Cat out of hell / Lynne Truss. – First edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-61219-442-4 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-61219-443-1 (ebook)

  I. Title.

  PR6070.R87C38 2015

  823’.914—dc23

  2014029141

  Design by Christopher King

  v3.1

  To Gemma,

  who loves proper horror,

  with apologies

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: Beside the Sea

  Part Two: Home

  Part Three: Correspondence

  Part Four: Dorset

  A Note From the Author

  About the Author

  PART ONE

  BESIDE THE SEA

  The following story, which is absolutely true, was brought to my attention when I was holidaying recently on the coast of North Norfolk. The month was January. I was in search of silence and tranquillity. I had rented a cottage which provided a fine view of the deserted nearby sea-shore, on which my small brown dog could run in safety. Having recently suffered the loss of my dear wife, I chose the location with care – isolation was precisely what I required, for I was liable to sudden bouts of uncontrollable emotion, and wished not to be the cause of distress or discomfort in others. For a week or two, I was glad to be alone here: to make the fire, cook simple meals, watch the dog running in happy circles at the far-off water’s edge, and weep freely in private whenever the need inexorably overcame me.

  But I forgot that I would need mental stimulus. At the end of Michaelmas term I had bade farewell to my position at the library in Cambridge with few real regrets; the work had been mechanical for quite some time, and I had assumed I would not miss it. I remember debating whether to pack my laptop. This is strange to think of now. Had I not brought it with me, perhaps the following story would never have been told. But pack it I did. And one stormy evening, when the wind was moaning in the chimney, and I was craving intellectual occupation, I suddenly remembered that, around the close of the year, a library member of small acquaintance had sent to me by email the following folder of documents and other files, under the general title “Roger.” I opened it gratefully, and for several hours afterwards, I was transported by its contents. By turns I was confused, suspicious, impatient and even cynical. The story therein conveyed was outlandish, not to say preposterous. And yet, as I continued to study the material over the ensuing days, I felt increasingly inclined to believe it. Sad to say, I think what finally convinced me of the files’ veracity was the staggering stupidity of the man named throughout as “Wiggy,” through whose pitifully inadequate understanding these events are mainly delivered to us. As my wife would have said (I can hear her now), you couldn’t make him up.

  Naturally, I wondered on occasion what lay behind Dr Winterton’s decision to send this material to me. But being unable to make contact with him (no wi-fi here), I was bound to accept the most likely explanation. I had rented a lonely cottage on the seaside; Winterton had somehow heard tell of it; he knew that this story unfolded in a similarly lonely cottage beside the sea. Though I often tried to picture Dr Winterton, I found that I could capture only, in my mind’s eye, a fleeting impression of a snaggle tooth and a hollow, unshaven cheek, and possibly (oddly) the smell of cloves. In former times, I would have asked Mary, of course. She had been my colleague at the library for the past twenty years; even though her position was part-time, she had paid lively attention to the members in a way that I would sometimes find bewildering. I remember how she would, on occasion, attempt to discuss the members with me at dinner, and grow incredulous (but amused) when I was able to call to mind not one of the persons concerned. I believe she did once mention Winterton to me in particular, but she would be unsurprised to learn that I could now recollect nothing of the circumstances of her dealings with him. For several years she was in
charge of allocating the carrels in the great reading room, so perhaps it was related to that. She was the most wonderful, practical, and rational woman, my dear Mary. She would never have taken this simple cottage! She would have been instantly alive to all its frustrating inconveniences. But she would have laughed with sheer pleasure to see our dog running so happily on the deserted shore. Every time he does it, I feel her loss most dreadfully.

  After long consideration, I have decided to present this material exactly in the order I encountered it myself. Who is Roger? Wait and see. I hope this is not confusing, but at the same time, I have come to believe that I should editorialise as little as possible. I will merely make clear, to begin with, that the “written” files – including the rather pointless and silly dramatic efforts – are by the man calling himself Wiggy. Descriptions of photographs and transcripts of the audio files are by me.

  Contents of ROGER folder

  WORD files:

  ROGER NOTES (119KB)

  ROGER THOUGHTS (66KB)

  MORE STUFF (33KB)

  ROGER DREAM (40KB)

  JPEGs:

  DSC00546 (2MB)

  DSC00021 (1.6MB)

  DSC00768 (3.8MB)

  Files in FINAL DRAFT (screenwriting software):

  Roger Screenplay 1 (25KB)

  Roger Screenplay 2 (18KB)

  AUDIO files:

  ONE (48.7MB)

  TWO (64MB)

  ROGER SCREENPLAY 1

  (by Wiggy)

  The kitchen of a coastal cottage on a gusty night. Scary stuff! Windows rattle. A kettle steams, having just been boiled. There is a sense of awkwardness, reflected in the MUSIC. Under a pool of yellow light at the kitchen table, a digital audio recorder is glinting. Facing each other at the table, their backs in shadow, are WIGGY and ROGER.

  Close-up on the recorder: it is recording.

  Close-up on wall clock. It is 11:45. Close-up on window: it’s VERY DARK.

  WIGGY shudders. He is a handsome man in his mid-thirties; attractive and serious. ROGER stares, breathes. Music now suggestive of heartbeats. WIGGY speaks first.

  WIGGY

  Shall we start?

  ROGER

  Whenever you like.

  WIGGY

  Can I get you anything?

  ROGER

  Such as?

  WIGGY

  Water.

  ROGER

  No.

  WIGGY

  Tasty tit-bit?

  ROGER

  (affronted)

  No.

  WIGGY

  (trying to lighten the tone)

  Saucer of milk?

  (laughs)

  Ball of string?

  ROGER gives him a pained look. He is a cat, of course. In fact, I probably should have mentioned this at the top of the scene – NB: remember to go back and do that. ROGER is a cat. Otherwise, if not clear ROGER is a talking cat, the scene might be somewhat less interesting.

  WIGGY

  (abashed)

  Sorry.

  WIGGY attempts an encouraging smile, but ROGER is stone-faced. As well as being a cat, he is a bit of a bastard, to say the least. NB: Is this the right place to start the story? Yes, surely. Or possibly no. Oh God, I have no idea.

  ROGER

  Can I just check? You’re not going to write this up like a screenplay?

  I mean, in a screenplay format?

  WIGGY

  (lying)

  No, I’m not. Why?

  ROGER

  I’ve read your other screenplays, don’t forget.

  You used to send them to Jo. We laughed like drains.

  You go in for very self-indulgent stage directions.

  WIGGY rises above this, superhumanly. But what a nerve.

  WIGGY

  So, Roger. Here you are.

  ROGER

  (not really paying attention, bored)

  Yes.

  WIGGY

  A talking cat!

  Note to self: Remember to make this clear at the top.

  ROGER

  Yes.

  WIGGY

  Would you like to tell me –

  (he falters, understandably)

  – something about that?

  ROGER has been thinking about something else. Close-up on ROGER.

  ROGER

  (thoughtfully)

  What do you say to Daniel Craig?

  No one will believe this. But it did really happen.

  WIGGY

  (confused)

  What do you mean: what do I say to him?

  I’ve never met him.

  ROGER

  If this becomes a film.

  WIGGY

  I’m sorry?

  ROGER

  You can be very dense sometimes, Wiggy.

  What do you say to getting Daniel Craig to do my voice in the film, if there’s a film?

  WIGGY

  Well, I hadn’t really thought –

  ROGER

  (interrupting)

  He’s very understated.

  WIGGY

  Yes. Yes, he is. Famously.

  ROGER

  He’s classless. I like that.

  WIGGY

  Yes.

  This is exactly how the conversation went.

  ROGER

  Masculine.

  WIGGY

  Absolutely.

  ROGER

  Emotionally reticent.

  WIGGY

  Yes, but –

  ROGER

  He’d be perfect.

  WIGGY

  (laughs)

  Except that you sound nothing like Daniel Craig, Roger.

  You sound like Vincent Price!

  ROGER jumps off the table, landing softly on the stone-flag floor, tail raised high. What a prima donna. He just can’t stand it when WIGGY gets the last word on anything.

  WIGGY

  (calling)

  Roger! Oh, come on.

  ROGER looks round and makes a loud – and very pointed – miaow.

  WIGGY

  You’ve got a great voice, Roger!

  ROGER pushes through the cat-flap and leaves. Music climax. WIGGY, sighing, switches off the recorder. Windows rattle.

  Outside, the garden gate creaks and bangs in the wind. Beyond is the cry of the sea.

  Note to self: do this again; still not working. Remember it’s quite unusual that a cat is talking. Difficult to get the proper distance on this when you’ve got so used to it. Formatting quite professional-looking, though. So that’s encouraging, at least.

  JPEG DSC00546

  The picture shows an unremarkable moggy-type cat – tabby and white. White face and bib. White paws. Tabby back, tail and ears. Quite hefty. Harmless-looking. He is lying in the arms of a tall, striking woman in a grubby artist’s smock, her long brown hair lifted by a sea-breeze. She is smiling. At her feet is a small brown terrier dog of attractive appearance whose tongue is hanging out. Behind is a flint and brick cottage – the name LIGHTHOUSE COTTAGE visible on the lintel.

  ROGER THOUGHTS

  (by Wiggy)

  Where to start? The crazy thing, or Jo? Well, Jo. Obviously, Jo. I mean, where the hell is she? You can’t just disappear! There I was, Coventry, Belgrade Theatre. God. Four o’clock-ish. Thursday afternoon. Just going on in the second half of matinee of See How They Run! “Call for you,” they said. Alice, the ASM. I didn’t have to take it, but I did. Thank God I did. It’s Jo, sounding weird. “Wiggy,” she says. “Wiggy, please come. It’s Roger. You’ve got to help me take care of him.” Or something like that, but I can’t be exactly sure. Well, I was a bit distracted! We’re building up to the bit where Jeff says, “Sergeant, arrest most of these vicars!” and it’s important to concentrate. And my big sister is calling me at work to talk about looking after a cat? “Jo, I’ll have to call you back,” I said. I handed the phone back to Alice, and made my entrance through the French doors – just in time, I might add.

  Anyway, after the curtain, I called the
cottage, like the decent chap I am, but no luck. It kept going to voicemail. Ditto the mobile. I left a couple of messages. “Orfling Two calling Orfling One” – that’s our code to each other – well, that’s been our code since Ma died and left us on our own when I was still at school. Jo’s Orfling One, of course. And I’m Orfling Two. But she didn’t call back. Alice said afterwards that she’d tried to ask Jo what the problem was – they met when Jo loyally visited the show when we came in to Worthing (the cottage isn’t far from there) – but she said it was hard to make out anything distinct from the phone because of all the laughter in the theatre – some of which, I’m pleased to say, was generated by yours truly. What did Coventry Bugle say? Well, thank you for asking. I believe it was, “Will Caton-Pines manages to make the thankless part of Clive, the husband, almost believable.”

  Anyway, back with Jo, I kept trying to call her for the next couple of days. At the end of the week, I just drove down here. Orflings must stick together, and anyway it was the end of the run. And of course there’s no sign of her – or even of mad dog Jeremy, who’s normally so glad to see me. I say “of course” there’s no sign of Jo – but why do I say that? There’s no “of course” about it! Where is she? Even as I drove up the muddy lane from that bloody village it felt all wrong. Her car sitting on the soggy grass across from the house. Big gate open. Back door unlocked. Handbag in the hall. Jeremy’s collar and lead hanging from the usual peg, next to the one where she usually keeps the spare keys for the next-door neighbour. Mobile phone plugged into the charger in the kitchen. Heating on. “To do” list on a chalk board – Do this, get that, take care of whatever. It felt like she’d just popped out. It still feels like she’s just popped out – and I’ve been here four days. Don’t know what to do, apart from write this.

  I did ring the police yesterday, and a detective called Sergeant Duggan came round and took a statement. I showed him all round the house, the shed, studio, little cellar with historical smuggling connections and what not. Took him down to see the beach. Pointed out the fine view along the coast to Littlehampton. We knocked next door, but that chap’s always away – lives mainly in France. Jo’s only met him once since she’s been here. I explained how the two cottages used to be one house, built around 1750, and how Ivor Novello used to visit the one next door in the 1930s, when it belonged to a star of the musical theatre. I suppose I got a bit carried away telling him about next door – all the parties and what not. I shouldn’t have bothered! You can always tell with police when you’re giving them “too much information,” because they stop writing it down. My big mistake was asking him in a jocular way whether anyone had ever said to him, “Sergeant, arrest most of these vicars!” He didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.