by Alan Baxter
“Thank you, that’s very kind.” He’d been unfair, he knew. She had asked him to let her know if he wouldn’t be home for dinner and he had, he knew, rather deliberately rebelled against that.
He noticed Skittles, Boss, and either Ollie or Gimlet had wandered into the room and sat around the carpet in various stages of ablutions. The other ginger tom and George were in the hallway, peering intently through the door. As he ate his fry-up he became increasingly uncomfortable with the scrutiny of Oates and her minions. As he opened his mouth to say something, Mrs Oates clapped her hands and said, “Right, I’ll leave you to it. Any laundry?”
“Laundry?”
“Yes, I’m doing the washing today, happy to throw yours in.”
“Oh no, that’s fine, thanks.” It seemed a step too far to let the old lady see his smalls.
“Righto then.” She smiled and left, leaving the door open six inches. The cats remained, watching. He once again had the distinct impression they wanted him gone and couldn’t wait to indulge that desire.
*
He took the tray back to the kitchen after he’d showered and dressed. “I’ll definitely be home for dinner tonight, Mrs Oates.”
“Jolly good,” she said, without turning from the sink.
“I’m off to find a flat today,” he said, feeling strangely guilty. “I shan’t be in your hair much longer. Ha ha.” He didn’t actually laugh, but spoke the words ha ha. It was the best he could manage.
“Don’t be silly, dear,” Mrs Oates said. “I’m no more expensive than a flat, and your utilities and meals are included. Not counting lunch, of course.”
“Sure. But I’d like a place of my own.”
The landlady glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrow and hard. “Don’t be ridiculous. How would you cope?”
Jeremy bit back two or three replies. Deciding on silence instead, he moved to leave and saw Skittles glowering at him from the top of the refrigerator. Jeremy scowled back, then stalked off down the hallway. Outside it was gloomy and cold. Heavy rain fell, but it was a blessed relief from the confusing hot and cold vibes of the guesthouse. At least he knew where he stood with rain.
*
Sally Grace was the only estate agent in Beston-on-Sea, and it turned out she couldn’t show him around until the following morning. He was disappointed there weren’t more options, but Sally assured him she would have the three available places ready for his inspection the next day. He would be able to move into any of them immediately, she’d said. He had every intention of picking whichever was the best of the three. Anything was better than Mrs Oates’ House of Cats and Contradictions.
After a dispirited morning of wandering, he headed to the pub for lunch and was only slightly surprised to find Bosley already there. “Half day Fridays,” the round man explained. “Benefits of long service. Join me?”
“Why not.”
Jeremy enjoyed a ploughman’s lunch and the accountant’s company, though Bosley sometimes tended to look on the dark side of things. They agreed to meet on Sunday for a round of golf, a game Jeremy had never played. Bosley insisted that was a lack to be rectified as soon as possible.
“Better get back in good time today,” Bosley said. When Jeremy had shared the story of the previous night’s confrontation, his companion had looked a little smug, but also pained. “Seriously, don’t annoy the old lady. Get your flat and get gone, but meanwhile, do all you can to keep her happy.”
“She’s just a weird old woman.”
Bosley shook his head. “Is she?” Without another word he hurried away.
Jeremy finished his drink and headed out. The rain hadn’t let up, and he hunched against sheets of it as he jogged back to the guesthouse. He arrived at five thirty, bedraggled and cold, but happily drunk from several afternoon pints.
Mrs Oates met him in the hallway. “Goodness gracious, Mr Pickering, you’ll catch your death! Get into a hot bath before dinner, you’ve plenty of time.”
“Good idea!” he agreed, and hurried upstairs.
In his room, a large white bathrobe lay on the bed. The clothes he’d thrown over a chair the night before were gone. Jeremy frowned. He checked the drawers, then the wardrobe, anger starting a bonfire in his gut as he found them all empty.
He ran to the stairs and yelled down. “Mrs Oates! Where are my clothes?”
“In the wash, dear.”
He gaped like a fish once or twice before he managed, “But I told you not to bother. Most of them weren’t even worn, they were clean!”
“It’s no bother, dear. And you’ve travelled. Always best to wash and air clothes that have been packed away.”
Glued to the landing, Jeremy trembled with impotent rage. He’d taken a three hour train ride, not a camel-train across the Sahara. He clenched and relaxed his fists several times, at a loss, trying to control the rage that alcohol threatened to set loose.
“They’ll be in the tumble dryer soon, dear. You can wear your bathrobe for dinner.” She appeared in the hall downstairs, smiling up at him. “Just this once, mind! As there are no other guests.”
She ducked out of sight before he could yell at her to not treat him like a bloody child, that she wasn’t doing him any bloody favours. Stop fucking interfering! he wanted to scream. But it all died on his tongue.
He stewed in the hot bathwater, the steam and heat doing nothing to clear his booze-fuddled brain. He’d left home to escape this shit. His mother’s constant coddling, swinging from smothering care to tight fury without warning, the shitty cats who could do no wrong, his shitty father hollowed out by his wife until there was nothing left of him but a distant, pointless shell. Jeremy would not let the same happen to him. Not at home and not here. Tomorrow and those flats could not come quick enough.
The sheer hide of that woman to take his clothes! His anger seethed and he ground his teeth, then jumped, splashing water over the side of the bath at the sight of Skittles on the edge of the sink, gazing down at him.
“How the fuck did you get in here?” he said in a growl. The bathroom door was shut. Had the foul creature been there all along? Was there no peace? Fury melted his thoughts, taking common sense and rationality with them. Jeremy surged up, a tide of bathwater washing over the edges of the tub, and grabbed the stunned black cat by its neck. It squawked and thrashed, but Jeremy gave it no chance, endured flying claws that gouged at his forearms and chest, and plunged it into the hot water. Teeth bared, breath in hard pants, Jeremy used both hands to hold the bastard under.
Finally it stopped writhing.
“Everything all right?” Mrs Oates called. Was she still downstairs or right outside the door?
Anger and inebriation pulsed away as shock ran through him. Jeremy stared at the inert creature floating between his pale feet, its fur gently shifting like seaweed in a current. “All fine!” he said, much too loud. “I just slipped. Everything’s fine.”
“Dinner in ten minutes.”
“Right.”
Jeremy gripped the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. What the hell had he done? But a subtle elation rilled beneath the shock. Excitement pushed against the shame. He was, he felt certain, a victim no longer. He looked up at the window, a black square holding back the night. Rain still fell, battering the glass. He climbed carefully from the tub and opened the casement, wincing against the blast of cold air.
There was barely a slap as Skittles hit the grass of the back garden some twenty feet from the house.
Jeremy dried off and donned the robe, feeling regal. He’d vanquished one of his enemies, at least. He celebrated with a feast of stew and boiled potatoes followed by an outstanding apple pie and ice cream. The thought of Skittles dead in the rain and Mrs Oates none the wiser as she served his dinner made him happier than he’d been in years. Let her find the hateful animal in the morning and wonder what had happened.
He found it hard to suppress a smile. It was only a stupid cat, but he was finally standing up for himself. And no
t for the last time. He revelled in the idea that this was the beginning of his new life.
*
Jeremy found his clothes neatly folded at the foot of the stairs when he came down to breakfast. In the kitchen, Mrs Oates was at the stove. Before he could say anything, she said coldly, “Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She set a steaming cup and a plate of toast in front of him. It was a little too brown, but he chose not to say anything. Today he would pick a flat. He might even sleep in it tonight, if he was lucky. He buttered the toast, not bothering to make conversation. Had she found Skittles yet? He burned to look out the window and see if the corpse still lay in the wet grass, but didn’t dare.
“Porridge today,” Mrs Oates said, and put a bowl in front of him.
“Thanks. Probably just as well, I don’t think my heart could cope with one of your lovely fry-ups every day.”
“Heart?” She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll put your clothes in your room.”
She was gone before he could reply.
He realised he was trembling, and was stunned by the swiftness of his change in mood. He shook his head. She couldn’t connect him to the fate of Skittles. But what did he even care? He spooned mechanically, counting the minutes until his ten a.m. appointment with the estate agent.
The porridge was good, creamy and sweet. Better than the toast. He blinked, slow and heavy, his head feeling strangely woolly. He rubbed his eyes and, as he took his fingers away, his vision remained quite blurred. He opened his mouth to say something, anything simply for the sake of speaking, but his tongue felt like a dried out sponge. He managed a “Whu . . . ?” before everything began to go dark.
*
Iron spikes pounded his brain when he woke, his mouth still dry, tongue still swollen. Light poured in through a window above him, making him wince. He was pressed down against something hard and cold. As his vision cleared a little he realised he was in the bath, empty of water. He tried to shield his eyes but his hand wouldn’t move. Both arms, in fact, were stretched up behind his head. He craned his neck to see his wrists bound in blue nylon rope, tied to the taps above the white ceramic.
He began to panic, and would have screamed but his still-swollen tongue only allowed a muffled whine. He kicked his heels, tried to rise, but the rope holding his arms was short and tight, trapping him in the bath. His body felt heavy, cumbersome, and he was naked. He blinked gummy eyes, trying to see more clearly what seemed to stain his legs and stomach, some dark smear.
Along the vanity, either side of the sink, the four remaining cats sat. Boss, George, Ollie and Gimlet, all in a perfect line, staring at him. They seemed to have deliberately left empty the spot Skittles had occupied the night before. As Jeremy noticed that, the four of them looked pointedly at the space, then back at him. Was that pity in their eyes? Their expressions were strangely human in the snub-nosed catty faces. Sudden realisation washed over him. All their hatred, their disdain, wasn’t vitriol, but warning. They had been trying to save him.
And he’d killed one of them.
The doorbell rang and Jeremy froze. He listened hard and just heard Mrs Oates say, “Why, hello, Miss Grace.”
The estate agent! No doubt wondering why he’d missed their appointment. He couldn’t make out what she said, then Mrs Oates spoke again. “No, no, the dear boy left last night.”
Jeremy’s eyes widened, unable to get a sound past his restricted tongue.
“Apparently changed his mind about the job and everything,” the landlady said. “Got the last train back up north.”
More muffled conversation then, “Oh, no, dear, sorry, he said nothing about a flat. He just decided to go back to his mother.”
Jeremy kicked his heels hard against the tub to make a woeful racket.
Oates’s voice drifted up the stairs. “Yes, those cats! Noisier creatures than you might think.”
Grace’s muffled tones once more, then Oates. “Yes, you know how these young men can be. No problem, you’re welcome. Take care now.”
Jeremy writhed, making noises that sounded more like choking than cries for help. The four cats sat motionless, didn’t take their eyes off him. He stilled as he heard Mrs Oates start up the stairs. His eyes widened at the sight of the dark stain spreading further, thickening, across his naked body, black and soft. It was fur. He winced and moaned as his bones began to ache and creak, to shift and reshape. His mind compressed, thoughts becoming muddy as feline preoccupations rose. But the Jeremy mind remained, pushed back and down but not extinguished. The midnight pelt rippled along his limbs, his hands and feet closed down into rounded paws, his finger- and toenails stinging with sharp agony as they stretched into sharpened points. His face began to twist and contort, shrinking, his eyes moved up and out, his ears stretched upwards. His cheeks prickled as whiskers sprang forth. His remade hands slipped free of the now loose coils of rope as he shrank. The other cats hopped down to the edge of the tub, stalked left and right, mewling softly.
“Boys really should learn to appreciate the efforts a mother goes to,” Mrs Oates said from the doorway.
Reaching For Ruins
Doctor John Rosenbaum tried to gauge the emotion in his patient’s eyes as she stared into the corner of his office. “What are you thinking, Marie?”
“I’m thinking I don’t much like your plant.”
Rosenbaum turned to look at the climbing vine, rising from a large terracotta pot. It crawled up the wall on hundreds of tiny dark suckers, waxy green leaves like polished jade hanging heavy as teardrops. “You don’t?” It was the first thing to ever survive more than a week in his office, but it was perhaps a little imposing.
Marie pulled her gaze away, laid a haunted expression on the psychiatrist. “It feels . . . wrong.”
Rosenbaum smiled, his best put-them-at-ease face. “Would you like to sit over here? Put your back to it.”
“I’d still know it was there.”
Rosenbaum nodded. Last session for the day, he told himself, then he could go home. To an empty weatherboard house in the middle of nowhere. After nearly five months he’d hoped he’d be used to it. But that wasn’t Marie’s problem. “Okay,” he said gently. “Well, let’s get back on topic. When did you first feel what you describe as your grip slipping?”
*
The next morning dawned hot after a close night, the temperatures steadily rising as spring rolled into summer. Dry and dusty, not like Sydney’s humidity, but still hard to take. Rosenbaum wondered how searing it would get. Regular periods into the mid-forties were not uncommon he’d been told. Maybe it had been a mistake, running this far away.
He parked under the shade of a huge gum tree, flourishing despite the climate, and frowned as his stomach rumbled. He needed breakfast from the canteen, the cupboard at home surprisingly bare. Still not used to the bachelor life after thirty years being kept and looked after by Rebecca. His wife . . . His ex-wife would no doubt smile nastily at his hopelessness now. But she was far away in Sydney’s northern beaches, no doubt entertaining who knew what stuck-up guests. Bitterness was a destructive emotion, Rosenbaum reminded himself, and tried to shake it off.
He stepped out of the car into the heat, and waved across the hospital grounds when he spotted the cantankerous old gardener. “Hey, Henry!”
The wiry man lifted his walnut-creased chin, squinting against the early brightness. “Need another corpse removed, do you?”
“No, quite the opposite. The new plant you gave me seems to be thriving.”
Henry leaned on his shovel, brow furrowed. “You lot kill plants faster’n I can replace ’em. That Doctor Hancock left a note on my shed door this morning, and a shrivelled up stick in a pot.”
Rosenbaum smiled. “That’s why I thought I’d let you know this latest one is doing so well.”
“Maybe we’ve found something a bit tougher this time.”
“You should offer one to Jasper. Doctor Hancock. Do you have more?”
Henry nod
ded, shouldering his spade. “Yep. Got plenty.”
Rosenbaum felt the conversation had been declared over. With another smile, he headed for the hospital, an old, dignified sandstone building with a random selection of added modern seventies extensions thanks to a brief era of unexpected funding. It stood in several acres of gardens, well-tended by Henry. Now the place needed more money than it would ever see again and its days were probably numbered.
When he reached his office, Rosenbaum paused in the doorway. The plant had grown overnight, noticeably taller, thicker. He wondered about Marie’s concern; the thing did seem somehow . . . weighty. But anxiety made enemies of all things and Rosenbaum needed to distance himself from his patients’ issues. And his own. Rebecca was a keen and capable gardener.
He slumped into his chair. Talking of issues, Jack Rickard today, a resident patient. What they would have called an “inmate” in the old days, avoiding jail by living in the secure wing. Rosenbaum reread notes from their last session, braced himself for Rickard’s intensity.
A movement at the window caught his eye and he jumped. Henry the gardener peered in, cupped hands shading his eyes. He did nothing to acknowledge Rosenbaum, but stared hard at the plant in the corner. With a look of surprise, almost as if he’d been expecting the doctor to have lied, he turned away and trudged across the grass pushing a wheelbarrow.
*
Jack Rickard leaned back in the chair, legs hanging wide at the knee, hands interlocked behind his head. “I like your new plant, doc.”
“Do you?” Rosenbaum watched his patient’s eyes closely. “Why?”
“Dunno. Looks healthy. Strong.”
“Would you like a plant like that?”
Rickard barked a guttural laugh. “I’m not a fucking housewife.”
“But you said you liked it.”
Rickard’s brow furrowed briefly. “Yeah, well, doesn’t mean I want one.” He looked away from the plant, his usual sneer returning. “I’m not very good at looking after things.”
