Cat Out of Hell
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Acclaimed New York Times bestselling author Lynne Truss (Eats, Shoots & Leaves) is back with a mesmerizing and hilarious tale of cats and murder
For people who both love and hate cats comes the tale of Alec Charlesworth, a librarian who finds himself suddenly alone: he’s lost his job, his beloved wife has just died. Overcome by grief, he searches for clues about her disappearance in a file of interviews between a man called "Wiggy" and a cat, Roger. Who speaks to him.
It takes a while for Alec to realize he’s not gone mad from grief, that the cat is actually speaking to Wiggy . . . and that much of what we fear about cats is true. They do think they’re smarter than humans, for one thing. And, well, it seems they are! What’s more, they do have nine lives. Or at least this one does – Roger’s older than Methuselah, and his unblinking stare comes from the fact that he’s seen it all.
And he’s got a tale to tell, a tale of shocking local history and dark forces that may link not only the death of Alec’s wife, but also several other local deaths. But will the cat help Alec, or is he one of the dark forces?
In the deft and comedic hands of mega-bestseller Lynne Truss, the story is as entertaining as it is addictive” (The Sunday Telegraph) – an increasingly suspenseful and often hysterically funny adventure that will please cat lovers and haters alike. And afterwards, as one critic noted, “You may never look at a cat in quite the same way again” (The Daily Mail).
an impressive monk-like figure, possibly with long iron-grey hair, high-domed forehead and dark, beetly eyebrows: basically, I had been bracing myself for a cross between Christopher Lee in Lord of the Rings and the dementors in Harry Potter. But if Winterton looked like anyone at all in children’s literature, it was actually Paddington Bear. He arrived at dusk on the day I had been to the library. Watson barked at his approach. I took a deep breath, picked up the dog and opened the door in
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
long time since I’d cared a bean about any other topic than the evil that cats do. Given my previous character, this development was quite remarkable. Who ever would have thought that a chap like me – who took the Guardian daily; who had never missed a Newsnight unless deeply indisposed or out of the country; and who sent funny letters to Private Eye (which they sometimes printed) – could turn so completely metaphysical overnight? But so it was. In fact, it seemed to me that every single item on
mastered the complexity of Greek ferry timetables. According to the photograph in the “Roger” file, they had also both lazed happily in the grass beneath the swinging corpse of a man who had been their nominal Master in this world. But now they were poles apart. Whereas the Captain now seemed to represent only the worst things in cats (murderous instinct, territorial violence, shattering toughened windscreens with bare claws), Roger stood for all that was best – elegance, beauty, fine whiskers,
little body as he tried to jump after those evil cats into that fateful well. I wish I could say that spring is round the corner, but it isn’t. It is still absolutely freezing, and the weather forecasters have run out of jocular ways of breaking the miserable news that this state of affairs will continue for the next two months at least. Speaking of the weather, Wiggy and I were snowbound in Dorset for three days after the events at Harville, and I think we helped each other through it. He’s a