When Malcolm woke up, a little while later, he was sure he’d gone back to being a human. Because his vision was no longer full of grass and feet. His eyes were, clearly, operating at the right level. He had a great view, in fact, of his year group coming back towards the farmhouse, looking a bit disappointed.

“I don’t know where it disappeared to,” Gavin was saying. “When we went out to feed Benny and Bjorn, there was definitely another tortoise there!”

“Oh, there it is!” said Mr Barrington.

“No, Mr Barrington, that’s just a big mound of manky lettuce,” said Barry Bennett.

“Oh.”

Very relieved, Malcolm assumed they’d spot him in a minute, and ask him where he’d been. Wait till I tell them, he thought. Although they probably won’t believe me!

But strangely, all the children from his year – and Gavin and Maven, and Mr Barrington – just ignored him. They got closer and closer, without seeming to notice him at all. Then, weirdly, they seemed to pass underneath him.

At which point Malcolm realised his eyes weren’t actually operating at the right level. He was higher up than everybody else.

He was, in fact, on the farmhouse roof.

Before he had a chance to consider how he might’ve got there, he heard someone scream:

“GETTTTTTOOFFFFFFFFFFMYYYYYYYROOOOOOOFFFF!!”

This was followed by a searing pain across his back. Malcolm jumped. Really jumped: much higher than he was expecting. As he reached the top of his jump, he looked down. Looking up at him, teeth bared, fur standing up, was the farm cat, Zsa-Zsa.

This was all very confusing. Why was he on the roof? How had he jumped so high? Why was the farm cat so angry with him?

Well, there was one obvious answer, which did occur to Malcolm, although he preferred not to think about it. But that was quite difficult, seeing as the other thing that was clueing him in as to what had happened was that his hands and feet, which he could see whirling around beneath him, were black, furry and clawed.

At least it meant that he landed gracefully.

“I SAID: GET OFF MY ROOF! THIS IS MY ROOF! MY FARM! NO OTHER CATS ALLOWED!!”

“CALM DOWN!” said Malcolm. “I’M NOT A CAT!!”

“WHAT?”

“I’M NOT A CAT!!”

Zsa-Zsa looked at him. She looked and looked. Her eyes seemed to bore into him.

Then, very suddenly, she looked away and started washing herself.

Malcolm watched her, confused.

“So … you believe me?” said Malcolm. “We’re good?”

“Of course I … slurp slurp … don’t … slurp … believe you. I just noticed a speck of … slurp … dirt … on my shoulder.”

“Right. So even though you’re really angry, you thought you’d just stop the fight for a second to have a wash?”

Zsa-Zsa stopped licking herself and looked at him. “Yes. That’s what we cats do. Don’t pretend you don’t!”

“I don’t! Because I’m not a …” Unfortunately, just at that point, Malcolm spotted a tiny bit of matted fur on the side of his left front paw: and found himself unable, physically unable, not to bring his mouth towards it. It was like his tongue and teeth were made of iron and the bit of matted fur was a magnet. “… slurp slurp … cat.”

“Oh, right …” said Zsa-Zsa. “I see. I see perfectly.”

“I’m … slurp slurp …” Malcolm drew back his now slightly moist paw, and wiped it two or three times down the side of his face, “… not!”

Zsa-Zsa clearly didn’t believe Malcolm. I say clearly, because she jumped on him, biting and scratching.

“DO YOU THINK I’M STUPID? DO YOU?!” she screamed at him. She was dragging his body round as she said this, in order to batter her back legs in his face.

“NO. OW! ALTHOUGH YOU ARE PURRING WHILE YOU’RE FIGHTING!! WHICH SEEMS A BIT STUPID!”

“CATS DO THAT TOO SOMETIMES!!”

“OH! RIGHT! OW!”

“DON’T PRETEND YOU DIDN’T KNOW!”

“OK, I DID KNOW—”

“AHA!” Batter! Batter batter batter batter batter! went her back legs. On his face.

“OWOWOWOWOW! BUT I ONLY KNOW BECAUSE I’VE HEARD OUR CATS DO IT! AT HOME! WHEN I WAS A HUMAN!!”

“THIS IS THE WORST LYING EXCUSE FOR ENCROACHING INTO ANOTHER CAT’S TERRITORY I’VE EVER HEARD!!”

“YOU CAN ASK THE TORTOISES!! BENNY AND BJORNITA!!”

This did actually make Zsa-Zsa stop battering him for a second. She rolled away, disdainfully.²⁸

She stared at him, slightly more quizzically than before. Although still like she might jump on him at any moment. Or start washing. Which in fact she did. Slurp. Slurp slurp.

“So yes,” said Malcolm, “you can ask the tor—”

“Shhh …” she said, her voice muffled by fur. “I’m thinking.”

Slurp slurp slurp. Malcolm breathed heavily. He looked down at his feet. Which were not feet, really; they were paws. He noticed his claws were sharp. It occurred to him that he might, in fact, have been able to fight Zsa-Zsa off.

“OK,” said Zsa-Zsa, stopping washing as suddenly as she started. “Something weird is going on here. Because only animals from this farm know about the transgender tortoise.”

“She’s not transgender. She’s just a she. Who Gavin called Bjorn. She prefers Bjornita.”

“Whatever. How do you know that?”

Malcolm sighed. What he was about to say seemed even less believable than that he was actually a human.

“Because I was a tortoise. Just now. Before I was a cat. I was speaking to the goat and—”

“OK, this is ridiculous,” said Zsa-Zsa.

“I know!” said Malcolm. “But ask the tortoises!”

“I can’t!” said Zsa-Zsa.

“Why not? They’re just over there!” said Malcolm. In the middle distance, he could see Benny and Bjornita, like little tanks, circling the last pieces of manky lettuce.

“I don’t speak tortoise.”

“Oh.”

This hadn’t occurred to Malcolm. He’d assumed all animals could speak all other animals’ languages. He, it seemed, could speak tortoise and cat. Although maybe he could only speak tortoise when he was a tortoise and cat when he was a cat. There was a lot to learn about being an animal.

“So …” said Malcolm, “how do you know about Bjorn wanting to be called Bjornita? If you don’t speak tortoise?”

“I speak a bit of dog.”

“Right …”

Malcolm looked at Zsa-Zsa for a while. She looked back at him, blankly.

“No, I don’t understand how that helps,” Malcolm said eventually.

Zsa-Zsa seemed to shake her head and tut, although she may have just been getting rid of a flea.

“The dog knows about the tortoises. He told me. Trotsky.”

“Oh.” Another short pause. “So Trotsky speaks tortoise?”

“No,” said Zsa-Zsa. “He speaks frog. Which is pretty similar to tortoise. Apparently.”

“Right.”

“When he speaks it – the dog …”

“When the dog speaks frog,” said Malcolm, thinking, How am I saying these things? How can this actually be happening?

“Yes – it’s a kind of croak. I can’t make it out at all. He just seems to be saying “sausages” over and over again. Anyway, I’ll ask him.”

“Ask him what?”

But before she could answer that, Zsa-Zsa – in three graceful leaps – had bounded down from the roof and was on the ground.