In a block of flats on Wariacka Street, Basil the cat starts behaving like he knows something everyone else does not. By Sunday morning, his small crimes look less like mischief and more like a plan.
In the block of flats at 13 Wariacka Street, everyone knew Basil, Philip and Berry's cat. He was not the sort of cat who simply napped in windows and judged people. Basil had once fallen asleep in the washing machine, fortunately before anyone turned it on, and another time spent the whole night curled in a pot of basil, which was how he got his name. Dad still called him Potato, because Dad believed every cat looked either like a potato or a conspiracy.
On Sunday morning, Basil opened one eye, spotted Philip, and gave him a slow, deliberate blink that felt oddly insulting. Then he stretched, yawned, and set off through the flat with the careful purpose of a thief who knew exactly where the cameras were.
First came the sock. One of Mum's socks vanished from the drying rack. Then Basil padded into Philip's room, hooked several pens out of the pencil case with one paw, and arranged them in neat little lines along the skirting board. Berry found him under the bed a minute later, nudging two erasers into the dark like he was hiding treasure.
By evening, the corridor outside their door looked as if a shoe cupboard had exploded. Trainers, boots, slippers, and one very suspicious sandal had been dragged into a twisting obstacle course that made the downstairs neighbour swear so loudly the walls seemed to blush.
After three days of this, Philip stopped laughing. Basil kept staring out of the window, ears pricked, as if he were waiting for a message only he could hear. He did not ask for food at the usual times. He barely touched his bowl. He just watched, patient and bright-eyed, like a tiny furry spy.
That night Dad shut the kitchen door and pulled the blinds half down. Basil sprang onto the windowsill so fast that Berry yelped. The cat's fur caught the light, and something on his neck flashed green, a tiny LED blinking under his collar.
Philip stared. Berry stared. Basil hissed, not like a cat at all but like an old modem trying to remember the internet.
Then a long whistle rose from somewhere under the block, and from the stairwell came a deep, metallic thud, as if something enormous had just started climbing towards their floor.