by Gavin Bell
VANSEN EXITED THE passenger side of the blue Ford Taurus and immediately dug his hands into the pockets of his coat to guard against the late October chill. The street was deserted and silent, as no doubt it always was these days. On either side were blocks of dilapidated tenement buildings; hunched too close together and framing the street beneath a sky the colour of television static.
Vansen flicked his cigarette butt in the general direction of a drain and looked up at the top floor of the nearest building and its solitary illuminated window. He shivered. His partner, Anglich, got out of the driver’s side and drained the last of his hot chocolate from a paper cup, hunching up his shoulders as the cold hit him.
Vansen said, “I hate coming to the East End, always seems to be colder, you know?”
“Actually,” said Anglich, “it’s always several degrees warmer inside any city.”
“Bullshit,” said Vansen. That was Anglich, always in there with the trivia to prove he knew more than you. At that moment, a bone-chilling gust of wind picked up Anglich’s empty cup from the roof of the car where he’d left it and tossed it down the street to mingle with all the other tumbleweed garbage.
“On the other hand, the wind chill is a bitch when you’re standing in these canyons,” Anglich nodded his head at the derelict buildings that surrounded them. “Not that that’s going to be a problem for much longer…”
Vansen smiled and started to walk over to the entrance to the building. It was as close to a concession as Anglich got.
The doorway afforded some modest shelter against the wind. Anglich traced his finger up the buzzer system to 7/C and pressed it a little longer than he needed to. They waited for a few seconds with no reply. Anglich put his fingertips on the sandstone wall, then rubbed them together, grinding the fine particles of sand together.
“You know, it’s a shame all these old places have to go,” he said, “they really knew how to build ‘em in those days.”
Vansen nodded his head. “Yep. If these were on the nice side of town, they’d be prime real estate.”
Anglich buzzed again, longer this time. No reply. He sighed and raised his finger a third time when the intercom crackled into life.
After a few seconds of crackling static, a cautious voice said: “Hello?” Vansen thought the voice sounded older than the decrepit buildings that surrounded them.
“Mrs Ormiston?” Anglich said. “My name is Detective Anglich, I’m here with my partner. We’d like to come in and talk with you about your husband?”
There was another few seconds of snap crackle and pop silence. It was as if the old lady was on satellite delay from Tokyo. Finally she said: “Oh… oh I see. You had better come up, officers.”
The electronic lock buzzed loudly. The wind blowing through all the holes in the building made the door swing open hard, almost smacking Anglich in the face. He caught the edge of the door and flung it back against the wall with a loud curse, before marching inside.
“They can’t knock these rat traps down fast enough for me,” he murmured.
Vansen followed behind, suppressing a grin.
The two men sat on a worn out green couch in Mrs Ormiston’s living room. An outdated record player spun a scratchy vinyl copy of Dean Martin’s greatest hits. Anglich thumbed idly through a paperback he’d found on the coffee table. Vansen looked around. Dino crooned ‘Memories Are Made of This’.
The room was green. Green, and faded. The 40-watt bulb in the ceiling light, augmented by a few olive-green scented candles dotted around the room, provided just enough light to reveal a pretty good-sized room by modern standards, last decorated in the fifties by the looks of things. It had dirty pale-green wallpaper that had been aged by decades of cigarette smoke, but had probably looked almost as bad to begin with. The carpet was a grubby forest green, and was worn away so much in places that you could see the floorboards beneath. On the wall opposite the couch was an old gas fire with an official card attached to it that read Warning – equipment unsafe. The faux-wood casing of the fire was littered with ornaments: a set of porcelain Napoleonic infantrymen, some shapeless brass things, a couple of Franklin Mint Princess Diana commemorative plates. The piece de resistance, however, was a life-size cat carved out of wood, positioned on the floor in front of the fire.
The cat, perhaps surprisingly, was not green. Rather it was jet-black, and had been fashioned in a low crouch, as though about to pounce. Its mouth was open and its white fangs gleamed savagely in the verdant squalor. Vansen wondered why they hadn’t made it look like it was curled up, that might have been a little more… normal. It was quite the most hideous piece of junk he had ever seen.
The door creaked open and both men looked up. No one came in. There was a soft padding on the carpet. A cat, a real one, emerged from behind the line of the couch, and circled round to gaze at the two men quizzically. Anglich wrinkled his nose.
“God I hate cats,” he said. “Did you know that the ancient Egyptians used to worship these things?” He shook his head incredulously.
Vansen smiled and bent down to stroke the kitty.
“Seriously,” Anglich continued, as though prompted. “If anyone killed a cat, even accidentally, they’d be put to death. Then they’d bury the cat in a special cat cemetery.”
Mrs Ormiston entered the room bearing a tray laden with various tea-serving paraphernalia. She moved fairly adeptly for her age, and wore a long dress the colour of asparagus, complemented by a curious metal broach in the shape of a stylised eye. “Sorry to be so long, I see you’ve met Bubastis. Do you like cats, officer?”
Vansen smiled, “I love ‘em. My grandma used to have a hundred of them.”
Anglich rolled his eyes and weighed the paperback he’d found in his hand. “Your husband had good taste in books.”
Vansen winced. Anglich was as tactful as always. Mrs Ormiston seemed unperturbed as she busied herself pouring tea into three china cups. Bubastis hopped up onto the couch beside Vansen, purring softly.
Vansen cleared his throat and said: “First of all, I’d just like to say how sorry we are for your loss.”
“That’s nice, dear,” said Mrs Ormiston. “Would you care for some chocolate-chip shortbread? Home-made of course.”
Vansen shifted in his chair uncomfortably, Anglich said, “Sure.”
Vansen shot him a disapproving glance and turned back to Mrs Ormiston, who was contentedly humming along to ‘Volare’.
“The thing is, Mrs Ormiston, we have to ask you some questions about…”
“We need to know how your husband died,” Anglich interjected, taking a bite of his shortbread. A fleck of chocolate clung to the side of his mouth.
Mrs Ormiston looked wistful for a moment, wearing the puzzled and mildly concerned expression of someone trying to remember whether they had left the lights on at home. “Poor Jonathan,” she said. “He had a fall, you see.”
“Correction,” said Anglich. “He had a massive heart attack and then fell seven floors from that fire escape,” he gestured towards the glass-paned door that led out to the metal stairway clinging to the side of the building. “That’s pretty comprehensively dead.” He selected another stick of shortbread.
Vansen clamped his right hand over his forehead. Occasionally he was grateful for Anglich’s sheer bluntness. This was not one of those times.
Mrs Ormiston nodded in agreement with Anglich. “Yes. Poor Jonathan. It never would have happened, if only he’d agreed to move.”
Vansen took a spiral-bound notepad from an inside pocket and looked over the notes he’d scrawled in it. “You and your husband were the only people still living in this building, is that right Mrs Ormiston?”
“That’s right young man. Everyone else moved away some time ago, I’m afraid. The McWilliamses left five months ago, they were the last. People thought it was strange, us staying on our own like this, but Jonathan flat-out refused to go. He always was stubborn when he got an idea in that head of his.” She took a dainty sip of tea and
gazed out of the window. Down the street, they were in the process of tearing down one of the other buildings. “Jonathan said he was waiting for the big pay-out.” She looked down at her slippered feet sadly. “Silly Jonathan.”
“A lot of people think they can strike it rich, waiting the developers out until they pay big,” Anglich said. “Nine times out of ten, you end up with less than the market value. They whittle it down until there’s only a hard core remaining, and then you get a letter telling you your building is going to be knocked down, here’s an offer.”
Anglich was as blunt as usual. Probably right, though. Vansen spoke gently: “Mrs Ormiston, I have to ask where you were when your husband died.”
They had finished their tea now, and Mrs Ormiston was putting the empty cups back onto her tray. “Oh I wasn’t here, dear.” She finished stacking the tray and beamed at Vansen. “I’ll just put these in to soak, back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
She vacated the room.
Vansen looked over at Anglich, who was looking back at him with his left eyebrow raised.
Vansen shook his head. “No way.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” Vansen lowered his voice. “Because she’s just a nice old lady. She wouldn’t hurt anyone.” He glanced back at the door. “Besides, her husband weighed two hundred pounds at least. There’s no way she could do it physically.”
“Doesn’t mean anything. I read a news story just last week; pregnant woman lifted a jeep that her husband was trapped under. You want something enough, you’ll make it happen.” He tapped his right temple with a sharp forefinger. “Mind over matter.”
“Anglich, that’s ridiculous.”
“You want to know what I think?”
“I already know what you think.”
Anglich continued, ignoring him. “I think sweet old Mrs Ormiston, who bakes her own shortbread and is kind to cats, got tired of being cooped up in this ghost block and decided to bump off her husband. Get her own ‘big pay-out’ from the insurance company.” He looked around the room disdainfully. “Can’t say I blame her, actually.”
Vansen shook his head. “You’re wrong. Have you even stopped to consider that this could be exactly what it looks like? A tragic accident?”
Anglich got up and paced across the room. “Vansen, I’ve been on the force for eleven years, and it didn’t take me the first day of my first week to figure out that nothing is exactly what it looks like.”
Just then, Bubastis the cat silently leapt from his perch on the couch and bolted out of the window, disappearing down the fire escape.
Anglich looked after him and snorted. “Cats.” He bent down to the black wooden cat in front of the gas fire and playfully flicked at its head. “At least this one’s less trouble.”
Vansen rolled his eyes and glanced over at the closed door that led to the hall and the kitchen, wondering where Mrs Ormiston had disappeared to.
“Jesus!”
Vansen whipped his head round at Anglich’s exclamation. The other man was cradling his right hand, which was gouting blood all over his suit and the brown carpet.
“Damn thing bit me!”
“Wha…” the word died half-formed in Vansen’s mouth. He watched in disbelief as the black cat – the wooden black cat – coiled back on its hind legs and launched itself at Anglich. The movement of its limbs made an impossible sound something like an oak swaying in a thunderstorm. From its fanged mouth issued a shriek somewhere between a cougar and a screaming little girl.
As it jumped, Anglich reflexively brought his left arm up to protect his neck. The thing sunk its teeth into Anglich’s arm. Anglich screamed and flailed. The cat made a sound that was closer to a bark than anything else. Centrifugal force ripped it away from Anglich’s arm, spraying a fountain of blood in an arc across the room.
Vansen lunged for the door. He looked back for Anglich, but the cat was already on him. It had got to his neck this time, biting and tearing. Anglich’s screaming became a series of wet, throaty sounds as he collapsed with the wooden cat on top of him. Its limbs were still making the unearthly creaking noise, which underscored the high-pitched screeches. Arterial blood spouted and flowed from Anglich’s now-silent form as the creature bit and clawed at his face and neck.
It snapped its head up and glared at Vansen, the marble eyes burning like twin furnaces.
Vansen heard the sound of someone screaming, and dimly registered it as his own voice as he hurled himself into the hall and then the small kitchen.
Mrs Ormiston was in there, kneeling before an altar of emerald-hued candles set up on a worktop. Against the macabre backdrop of the noises that were still emanating from the living room, she was uttering a prayer softly and matter-of-factly, as though composing a shopping list aloud.
“Beloved Bast, mistress of happiness and bounty, twin of the Sun God, slay the evil that afflicts our minds as you slew the serpent Apep. With your graceful stealth…”
Vansen, now even more unnerved, put a hand on her shoulder gingerly. “What the hell is going on?”
“…anticipate the moves of all who perpetrate cruelties and stay their hands against the children of light. Guide Detective Vansen along the path to enlightenment, as you did for my dear Jonathan.”
Vansen backed into the corridor. A low, rasping growl issued from behind him. He saw another doorway and fell through it, slamming the door in his wake. The bathroom. He snapped the tiny, ineffectual catch home. Something large and wooden slammed into the other side. It sounded like someone had slammed a baseball bat into it. A long crack had appeared down one of the panels.
Vansen braced his body against the door. The thing slammed into it again, he felt the jolt all down his body. He frantically looked around for a weapon, seeing only a collection of green soaps and one of those stupid lace-dressed dolls for covering the toilet paper. What in the hell could he hope to use against this nightmare anyway?
The cat slammed into the door again, knocking the wind out of him. Vansen’s exhalation turned into a whimper as he listened to the frenzied shrieking of the predator. It would be through the door soon. It was a matter of seconds.
But then… the shrieking lowered in volume. Then it was gone.
Vansen tried to slow his frantic breathing. He could barely hear over his heartbeat, but the unearthly screaming noise no longer filled the air.
Perhaps it had given up.
Or perhaps the whole thing had never happened.
Vansen felt his legs go, and he slid down the door onto the linoleum floor. He closed his eyes and listen to the pulse thud in his head as sweat ran down his face in cold streams.
It couldn’t have happened.
Vansen began to laugh, cackling hysterically. He heard a sharp clicking; the sound of wood on tile; and opened his eyes. The black cat was on the shelf below the open bathroom window. It had come around the ledge on the outside of the building for him. It just wouldn’t stay away.
Vansen tried to scream, but his mouth wouldn’t stop laughing. The cat pounced.
There was solid, blunt pain, then sharp, lacerating teeth, and finally, only ebony darkness.
Dean Martin was halfway through ‘In the Chapel in the Moonlight’ as Detectives Morrison and O’Neil made themselves comfortable on the worn-out green couch.
“…as you can appreciate Mrs Ormiston,” O’Neil was saying, “when two of our men go missing we have to follow up every lead. Right now we’re just talking to everyone who might have seen them last Tuesday. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” said Mrs Ormiston. “I’m happy to help.”
O’Neil smiled. She seemed like a nice old lady. Missing a few marbles, clearly, but so eager to help. If only they could all be like that.
His partner, Morrison, was staring intently at a curious ornament underneath the gas fire. He suddenly became aware of Mrs Ormiston’s eyes on him, and looked up at her.
“Nice cat,
” he said.
“Why thank you, young man,” Mrs Ormiston beamed.
“You taking him with you when you move?” asked O’Neil.
“Oh, but we’re not going to be moving. Not ever. We like it here, Bubastis and I.” Her green eyes glinted at the detectives. “Now. Don’t you boys go anywhere, I’ll just go fix us all a nice cup of tea…”
A Job Worth Doing
