by James Barrie
While she was sorting out dinner, Jonathan came into the kitchen. He sat down on a stool and rested his crutches in the corner. ‘Something smells a bit fishy,’ he said.
‘That’ll be the fish,’ Emily said. ‘So what have you been doing all day?’
Jonathan spread his palms, wondering where to begin. ‘I think she killed the dog today,’ he said.
He pointed at the back door and what lay beyond. ‘First she did in her mother, and now she’s gone and killed the dog.’
‘Oh, come off it,’ said Emily, arms folded. ‘People don’t go killing their mothers and dogs in the middle of the afternoon. Not in Acomb they don’t…’
‘But it happened,’ Jonathan said. ‘I’m sure of it. Both me and Theodore saw the dog jumping up in the window. Then the barking stopped. Then it was quiet. And then afterwards the curtains were snapped closed again.’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘No,’ Jonathan said. ‘Well, maybe a beer or two…’
Emily raised her eyebrows.
‘Look I’m not drunk. But I do think she’s done something to the dog… And her mother too.’
‘You really expect me to believe that some old woman behind, who I have never seen for that matter, has been murdered by her daughter? And now her dog’s been killed?’
‘She was in the garden. She had dug a hole. I reckon she had buried the dog. Or maybe even her mother’s head. I never saw her putting anything in the ground. She’d already covered it over. But I’m sure she’s buried something in the garden.’
‘I’ve heard enough,’ Emily said.
‘And the curtains haven’t been opened all today,’ Jonathan went on.
‘Give it a rest,’ Emily said. ‘I’ve had a crap day at work. I don’t need this as soon as I get in.’
She turned and went over to the back door. She looked across the garden to the house behind.
‘Well, they’re open now… And the television’s on. You can see the light flickering.’
Jonathan got to his feet and crossed to the back door. ‘You’re right. She’s gone and opened them, and she must have turned the TV on to make it look like her mum’s in there watching it.’
‘Look,’ Emily said, ‘if you really are concerned about the old lady, why don’t you just ask the daughter next time you see her?’
‘Ask her what? Did you kill your mother?’
‘You ask how her mother is.’
‘I will,’ Jonathan said. ‘Tomorrow… I’ll ask her how her mother is. See what she says.’
‘She was just doing a spot of gardening,’ Emily said. ‘Maybe you should do something about our garden. The lawn needs cutting. It’ll take your mind off all this murder nonsense…’
‘I can’t do the garden,’ Jonathan said. ‘Not with my foot.’
‘Well, I don’t know anything about gardening, and I’m not going to start learning now.’
‘We could get a gardener.’
‘Gardeners cost money and I don’t see you earning any sitting there.’
‘I’m on sick leave,’ Jonathan protested. ‘I’m still being paid…’
‘Enough about gardens and dead mothers,’ Emily said. ‘You haven’t even asked me about my day.’
‘How was your day?’ Jonathan said.
Emily shook her head. ‘I’m going to get changed now. When I come back down I don’t want to hear any more about dead dogs and murdered mothers.’
Theodore watched as she went upstairs taking her handbag with her. He followed.
When Theodore entered the bedroom, Emily was sitting on the edge of the bed. Banknotes fanned out across the duvet. Theodore jumped up onto the bed and stared at the money.
The concept of money baffled him. It was a difficult concept for most humans to get a grip on. You work so that you can gain money, so that you can sleep in a bed, eat food and maybe, if you are lucky, have one or two weeks’ holiday from the tedium of work. To a cat’s mind, those things should be a basic requirement of existence, not something that required eight hours labour a day.
Emily too wondered at the point of it all. She stared into Theodore’s eyes and began to stroke him.
Theodore felt the tension release from her as she stroked him and a faraway look appeared in her face.
Emily is lying on a deckchair in front of a five star hotel. She is wearing a black and white striped swimsuit by Whistles, sunglasses by Fendi and hat by Melissa Odabash.
Waiters wander around with trays of drinks. She lowers her sunglasses and gazes across at the other hotel guests. None of them look like they do a hard day’s work and neither does she.
She gets up and pads over the golden sand. The sun glistens on the turquoise blue of the sea.
A young bronzed man calls out to her. He looks like a young George Clooney crossed with Brad Pitt. He is standing in front of a convertible car.
‘Well, are you going to jump in?’ George/Brad says. ‘I thought we could have a romantic dinner and then dance away the night at a little club I know.’
‘Sounds fun,’ Emily says. ‘But I’m not really dressed.’
‘I’m sure we could call in and get you a little something on the way… It’s on me.’
‘Well, if you insist,’ Emily says, walking over to the waiting George/Brad.
She lets him give her a little kiss on the cheek before she climbs into the car, George/Brad holding the door for her while she gets in.
In the distance a telephone rings.
Then George/Brad says, ‘Are you going to get that?’
But it wasn’t George/Brad’s voice. It was Jonathan’s.
‘Telephone!’ he shouted again from downstairs.
Emily stopped stroking Theodore and began to gather up the banknotes. She pushed them back into a plastic envelope and put the money into the drawer of her bedside locker. She then rushed downstairs, the telephone still ringing insistently from the table in the hall. She knew who it was; only her mother called the landline.
Theodore stayed on the bed a minute. He stared at the closed drawer of the bedside cabinet. He then looked at the tower of paperbacks stacked on top, their spines facing him. He read the capitalised titles:
TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE
THE MAN ON THE BUS
THE BETRAYAL
THE GIRL YOU LOST
NO KISS GOODBYE
EAT, PRAY, LOVE
NO COMING BACK
THE NEW LIFE
He noted that she had yet to read The New Life by Nobel-prize-winning Turkish author Orhan Pamuk, as the spine was uncreased; either that or she had started and soon given up. He furrowed his brow, blinked his eyes and then jumped down from the bed.
Emily was still on the phone to her mother.
‘But it’s only Easter,’ she said, ‘won’t it be too cold for a barbecue.’ She was then silent as she listened to her mum Trish speaking.
Then: ‘Well, if he insists…’
A minute’s silence, then: ‘No, he’s still resting his foot… I’ve really just got in.’
Theodore soon lost interest in the one-sided conversation. He padded across the hall and slipped into the kitchen.
A minute later Emily entered the lounge.
‘My parents invited us over to Acaster Mildew on Sunday for Easter lunch,’ she said to the back of Jonathan’s head. ‘But as you are not mobile, they are coming over here instead.’
‘So you’re cooking?’
‘No,’ Emily said. ‘My dad’s already bought the food in and he’s insisting that he wants to cook… Surf and turf.’
‘Surf and turf?’
‘He likes to do it on the barbecue. Prawns for starter, then lamb cutlets. Barbecued pear and brandy snap surprise for pudding. It’s sort of an Easter tradition.’
‘But we don’t have a barbecue.’
‘He’s bringing one over, along with the food.’
‘I guess that’s all right then.’
Emily said. ‘I’d better put dinner on. It’s
already quarter to eight.’
She entered the kitchen.
‘Theo!’ she screamed.
Theodore was on top of the salmon, wolfing down the pink fish flesh. He stopped and jumped down onto the floor. He dashed at the backdoor, but then remembered there was no cat flap. He turned round and dashed past Emily, who was standing in front of the remains of the salmon.
Emily screamed, and then whimpered from behind her hands which she held over her face, ‘That was our dinner…’
The Cat Who Knew Too Much
Emily slept through her alarm on Easter Saturday. She was working that day and left the house without saying more than two words to either Jonathan or Theodore.
Theodore ate some biscuits left over from the day before and then went back upstairs.
He settled on the back bedroom window. He could see Ellen in her kitchen, emptying the kitchen bin. She opened the back door and carried the bin liner over to the black wheelie bin. She threw it in and was about to return inside when Stuart appeared at the boundary hedge.
‘Got a spare ciggie?’ he shouted over at her.
‘Are you ever going to buy any?’ Ellen said, walking towards him.
She handed over a cigarette and noticed Stuart staring down at her chest. She was wearing one of her father’s old shirts, three buttons undone. She knew that Stuart fancied her. He didn’t try to hide it. Although he was pushing forty he was handsome in a virile sort of way. Besides, there weren’t any other men who had ever shown any interest in her.
‘I’ve a shelf I need putting up,’ Ellen said, lighting his cigarette. ‘In my bedroom.’
She lit a cigarette for herself.
‘I can put a shelf up for you,’ Stuart said. ‘I’ll bring my drill round later.’
‘Well, I’m about to have a bath,’ Ellen said, blowing smoke provocatively at Stuart. ‘Give us an hour or so.’
‘Righty-ho,’ said Stuart. ‘What about your mum? Won’t all the drilling disturb her?’
‘Don’t worry about her,’ Ellen said. ‘She was up late. She’ll be dead to the world.’
‘Whatever you say,’ Stuart said. ‘I’ll be round later.’
‘I’ll leave the back door unlocked. Just come straight up and I’ll be waiting.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘And don’t forget your drill,’ Ellen said with a smile.
Theodore was distracted by a blur of black and white at the kitchen door. It was a magpie. He watched as it flapped about inside the kitchen. Another magpie stood guard on the edge of the overgrown lawn.
Theodore turned his attention back to Ellen. She was walking back towards her house. Stuart was staring at her back, at her rear end to be precise.
As Ellen reached the back door, the bird flew out of the house. She flapped her arms at the bird. ‘Get out of it,’ she shouted after it.
Theodore watched from the bedroom window as the magpie disappeared into the branches of an apple tree in Geoffrey’s garden.
Ellen closed the kitchen door and went upstairs to have a bath. Theodore jumped down from the windowsill and trotted downstairs.
Jonathan looked out of the French windows at the house that overlooked his. The curtains in both back bedrooms were open.
He remembered that he was going to confront his neighbour Ellen about her mother and the dog; he decided to put it off. Maybe Emily was right. He was just reading too much into it.
‘Fancy watching a film?’ he said to Theodore.
The cat was strutting up and down in front of the French windows, miaowing from time to time, already wanting to be out in the garden.
‘The Man Who Knew Too Much,’ Jonathan said, waving the plastic box at Theodore. ‘We might as well give it a go.’
He got to his feet on his crutches and managed to slot the DVD into the player.
Theodore looked at the television screen.
An American couple, played by James Stewart and Doris Day, and their young son, played by Christopher Olsen, are sitting on the back seat of a bus, travelling through a busy Marrakesh market place. The boy spots a camel through the side window of the bus. ‘Oh, look, a camel,’ he says.
And the three of them turn to look at it through the rear window of the bus.
Theodore looked through the rear window of the bus but there was no camel to be seen.
Soon, a Frenchman makes their acquaintance.
The boy says to the soon-to-be-murdered Frenchman, ‘If you ever get hungry, our garden back home is full of snails. We tried everything to get rid of them. We never thought of a Frenchman!’
And they all laugh.
Theodore turned from the television screen and peered through the French windows. He glimpsed the red cap of Wally, standing over a smouldering fire. He looked across at the house behind. He saw Ellen in her bedroom. She wasn’t alone.
On the television screen, Doris Day sang of being a little girl and asking her mother about her future, and her mother replying with, ‘Que Sera, Sera’. What will be, will be.
Jonathan turned from the screen and through the French windows he looked across at Ellen’s bedroom window. He saw Ellen’s face appear in the window. She looked across at him and mouthed:
‘When I was just a young woman
I took a pillow
From my mum’s bed.
You asked if I held it
Until she was dead?
What do you think I said?
Jonathan looked at the television screen and then back through the French windows up at Ellen’s bedroom window. Ellen’s face was close to the window. She sang the garbled chorus:
‘Que paso, paso
Whatever I did, I did
The past is not yours to know
Que paso, paso
What happened is so… is so.’
Another face then came into focus from the shadows of the room. It was coated in red hairs with red cheeks to match. It was Stuart. His face moved forwards and backwards behind Ellen, in and out of focus.
Then Ellen, her cheeks pink, her mousey-brown hair hanging across her face, sang:
‘When poor Sandy wouldn’t shut up
You ask me, neighbour
You ask with a sigh
Did I throttle her?
Poor little Sandy
Did the pooch have to die?
Then, from behind her, Stuart joined in:
‘Que paso, paso
Whatever she did, she did
The past is not yours to know
Que paso, paso
What happened is so… is so.’
Then Ellen sang:
‘Well, I’ve got concerns of my own
I ask my conscience
What should I do?
Shall I confess all?
Tell the police?
Why, they’d have a ball
If only they knew!’
Ellen’s face was now pressed to the window, her cheeks pink, as she mouthed out the words:
‘Que paso, paso
Whatever I did, I did
The past is not yours to know
Que paso, paso
What happened is so… is so.’
Jonathan managed to look away. He looked down at Theodore, who was sitting in front of the French windows.
Theodore turned to him and miaowed what sounded like: ‘Que paso, paso.’
‘Not you, as well,’ Jonathan cried and threw a cushion at the cat.
Theodore darted behind the sofa.
Jonathan looked back up at the window.
Ellen’s mouth was wide, her face pressed up against the glass. Stuart was behind her, working his way frantically to a climax. They both stared down at Jonathan and sang out:
‘Que paso, paso
Whatever I did, I did.’
Jonathan put his hands to his face, covering his eyes, as Ellen, Stuart and Theodore, from somewhere behind the sofa, all sang at the tops of their voices:
Que paso, paso
What happened is so… is
so
Que paso, paso!’
When he opened his eyes, the curtains in Ellen’s bedroom had been pulled shut and Theodore was sitting once more in front of the French windows.
From outside he heard a woman call out, ‘Stuart! Stuart! Are you out here?’
Rogue Window Cleaner
Nigel Bates returned that afternoon.
Jonathan, shaken by what he had seen in Ellen’s window, was actually pleased to see him. He got up from the sofa and opened the French windows.
Theodore darted through the open windows and out onto the lawn.
‘Just wanted to make sure there were no more smears,’ Nigel said, watching the cat make for the hedge at the back of the garden.
‘They look fine to me,’ Jonathan said. ‘Has work not picked up?’
‘Still a bit slow,’ Nigel said. ‘I’ve started telling people to call me Nigel now. I’m starting to like it. Norman was a bit old fashioned when you think about it.’
‘That’s good, Nigel.’
‘I’m going to change it officially by dead pool.’
Jonathan knew that Nigel meant deed poll but didn’t bother to correct him; he had something else on his mind. ‘You mentioned the house behind the first time you came round,’ Jonathan said. ‘Terrible business, you said.’
‘I remember it well,’ Nigel said. He took off his beanie and scratched his head. ‘Not something you forget in a hurry. Must have been ten years ago.’
‘What actually happened?’
‘There was a fire, wasn’t there? Shed went up in flames with him inside. They say a petrol can had been leaking fumes.’
‘But what caused it to suddenly burst into flames?’
‘That’s the funny thing. The word was that the young girl had been smoking out of her window. Then lobbed her fag end out, and that’s what did it. An accident like.’
‘Then what happened? What happened to the girl?’
‘Nothing, I don’t think. She was just a young lass. It was an accident, wasn’t it? They took pity on her.’
