To this day we don’t know what made the cats hate him. The police records indicate that the victim had no memory of wrongdoing against the feline community.
In the Autumn of 1997 Sam Lancaster, a twenty-four year old website designer, was leaving his flat to meet friends at his local public house. It had been an exhausting week: WebWinners had lost a major client and the dotcom bubble was beginning to rear its ugly iridescent head. Sam’s girlfriend was moving out and he’d had to cancel his holiday plans after forgetting to be administered the essential injections.
Walking along Penrose Avenue, Sam saw Marmalade sitting in the middle of the road. A car had stopped in front of the ironically-named Persian Blue and the driver was blasting her horn metronomically. Henry thought it amusing that this cat had stuck itself so resolutely in front of the Renault Clio. The driver clearly had no intention of leaving the vehicle and so Sam took it upon himself to manually remove the cat from its path. Marmalade was a lot heavier than he had expected; he could feel its guttural purr. He would later liken that sensation to placing one's hand on a washing machine door during a spin-cycle. The driver waved her thanks and drove on. The Persian mewed quietly as Sam finally set her down on the pavement. He stroked her head and continued on to the pub.
When he arrived it was his friend Simon who would be the first to notice Marmalade. She jumped up to the barstool, onto the bar and, resting her forepaws on a pump of Stella Artois, fixed a stare on Sam. Everyone agreed that it was LOL - worthy and in some small way Sam was flattered by the attention. He explained that he had just saved the cat from the path of a Renault Clio; naturally the cat now owed him lifelong servitude, he joked. Except that’s not quite what happened. Sam sensed that Marmalade disapproved of the story.
After the initial surprise was over, the Landlord asked Sam to kindly escort his cat off the premises. Sam, feeling a certain degree of guardianship, scooped up the persian and took it back to Penrose Avenue. As he lowered her to the pavement she shifted in his grip and began to cling to his arm. The nails were drawn, just enough to hook into his shirt. The cat purred heavily. Sam gently teased her claws from the shirt material and pulled the cat down onto the pavement. Marmalade rolled across the pavement and righted herself to her feet. She pounced and clamped to Sam’s leg.
Sam would not return to the pub that evening. He would spend the rest of the evening knocking the doors of Penworth Avenue and surrounding streets in a search for the cat’s owner. It was only at the final door that a resident asked how he knew the cat was called Marmalade. The cat didn’t have a collar, there was nothing to suggest that she should be called Marmalade. But Sam just knew. Smiling wanly, the resident slowly closed the door on Sam and Marmalade.
On Monday, Sam would arrive at work with Marmalade sitting victoriously on his shoulder, and in their wake Mildred, Sampson, Milan, Tigger and Fleapit. They had gathered over the weekend.
“Why haven’t you called pest control?” exclaimed Sam’s team leader.
Sam sucked at his lip. Marmalade and Fleapit were on his shoulders, providing rump ear-muffs.
“I don’t know. I think it’s because they have names.”
“Why have you given them names?”
“I didn’t give them names.”
The Team Leader tickled Fleapit’s chin. “I think there are probably some health and safety concerns here. You know - for the workplace. I think you really need to get rid of them.”
But they kept gathering. And they all came with names: Byron, Tiffany, Ziggy, Ginger, Malcolm. They established themselves in Sam’s flat, turning it into a fluff-nest of svelte nimbleness. They were surprisingly well-domesticated and made their own meals. Like a furry typhoon they slurped Sam up in a vortex of love. In a week or so, Sam made the decision that he would need to take drastic action: he left his flat and moved into a childrens’ playground.
It was at this point that the police became involved. Sam was becoming a public nuisance. The local media called him the Cat-Lover but Sam didn’t really love the cats, he only felt a degree of responsibility. And still the cats continued to amass. Imagine iron filings around a magnet. It’s a pretty basic metaphor but it captures the impossibility of severing the connection. The playground was cordened off as the clowder swelled around Sam. The fire department were eventually called in to brush the cats off Sam but they defended their territory (Sam) with slashings and bitings.
I won’t be able to go into detail here but the necessary action was undertaken.
Sam was shaken, and for a brief few weeks he was fully alone. The cats stopped coming. They knew death as well as anyone else.
In the next few months the owners would finally come forward. A graphic designer from Shoreditch, was the first to knock at Sam’s door. He sat opposite Sam and rubbed his eyes: “Fleapit was a kitten when my sister dropped him off. You know, I fed him. He was a good cat. But you know how busy things get.”
Byron: “We’d bought him for Dad, for companionship, after Mum died”
Tiffany: “I’d always wanted a cat. You know we weren’t allowed pets as kids?”
Ginger: “When the children left for University...the horses took up most of our time.”
Malcolm: “We travelled a lot.”
And so each of the owners visited Sam’s flat in pilgrimage.
The final visitor was the driver of the Renault Clio: “I just couldn’t return Marmalade’s love. She was so needy. I thought cats were supposed to be independent. She needed so much of my attention.”
The cats had ruined Sam's life; he was a broken man. It was easier to admit that they had hated him.
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